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THE  HOUSEHOLD 


BOOK 


OF  POETRY. 


, 


THE 


HOUSEHOLD  BOOK 


CHARLES  A.  DANA.. 


NEW  YORK: 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 

443  & 445  BROADWAY. 

LONDON:  16  LITTLE  BRITAIN. 

1860. 


OF 


COLLECTED  AND  EDITED 


BY 


SIXTH  EDITION. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1857  by 
D.  APPLETON  & COMPANY, 

the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York 


for.  i 

ZP/qh 

/MO 


PREFACE. 


The  purpose  of  this  book  is  to  comprise  within  the  bounds  of  a single 
volume  whatever  is  truly  beautiful  and  admirable  among  the  minor  poems 
of  the  English  language.  In  executing  this  design,  it  has  been  the  con- 
stant endeavor  of  the  Editor  to  exercise  a catholic  as  well  as  a severe  taste  ; 
and  to  judge  every  piece  by  its  poetical  merit  solely,  without  regard  to 
the  name,  nationality,  or  epoch  of  its  author.  Especial  care  has  also  been 
taken  to  give  every  poem  entire  and  unmutilated,  as  well  as  in  the  most 
authentic  form  which  could  be  procured  ; though  the  earliest  edition  of  an 
author  has  sometimes  been  preferred  to  a later  one,  in  which  the  alterations 
have  not  always  seemed  to  be  improvements. 

The  arrangement  of  the  book  will  be  seen  to  be  somewhat  novel ; but 
it  is  hoped  that  it  may  be  found  convenient  to  the  reader,  and  not  alto- 
gether devoid  of  sesthetic  congruity.  The  Editor  also  flatters  himself  that 
in  classifying  so  many  immortal  productions  of  genius  according  to  their  own 
ideas  and  motives,  rather  than  according  to  their  chronology,  the  nativity 
and  sex  of  their  authors,  or  any  other  merely  external  order,  he  has  exhib- 
ited the  incomparable  richness  of  our  language  in  this  department  of  litera- 
ture, quite  as  successfully  as  if  he  had  followed  a method  more  usual  in  such 
collections. 

That  every  reader  should  find  in  these  pages  every  one  of  his  favorite 


PREFACE. 


poems  is,  perhaps,  too  much  to  expect ; but  it  is  believed  that  of  those  on 
which  the  unanimous  verdict  of  the  intelligent  has  set  the  seal  of  indis- 
putable greatness,  none,  whether  of  English,  Scotch,  Irish,  or  American 
origin,  will  be  found  wanting.  At  the  same  time,  careful  and  prolonged 
research,  especially  among  the  writers  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  in 
the  current  receptacles  of  fugitive  poetry,  has  developed  a considerable 
store  of  treasures  hitherto  less  known  to  the  general  public  than  to  scholars 
and  to  limited  circles.  Of  these  a due  use  has  been  made,  in  the  confident 
belief  that  they  will  not  be  deemed  unworthy  of  a place  with  their  more 
illustrious  companions,  in  a book  which  aspires  to  become  the  familiar 
friend  and  companion  of  every  household. 

New  York,  August,  1858. 


INDEX. 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Address  to  the  Nightingale 

Afar  in  the  Desert 

Afternoon  in  February 

Airs  of  Spring 

Almond  Blossom 

Amaryllis ! 

Angling,  Verses  in  Praise  of 

Angler's  Trysting  Tree 

Angler 

Angler’s  Wish 

April 

Arab  to  the  Palm 

Arethusa 

Autumn 

Autumn 

Autumn — A Dirge 

Autumn  Flowers 

Autumn ’s  Sighing 

Belfry  Pigeon 

Birch  Tree 

Blac*k  Cock 

Blood  Horse 

Blossoms 

Blow,  Blow,  thou  Winter  Wind. 

Bobolink. 

Bramble  Flower. 

Brier 

Broom  Flower 

Bugle  Song 

Canzonet 

Chorus  of  Flowers 

Clouds 

Come  to  these  Scenes  of  Peace. . 

Cornfields 

Coral  Grove 

Cricket 

Cricket 

Cuckoo 

Cuckoo 

Cuckoo  and  Nightingale 

Cynthia 

Daffodils 

Daffodils 

Daisy 

Daisy 

Dandelion 

Description  of  Spring 

Departure  of  the  Swallow 

Death  of  the  Flowers 

Dirge  for  the  Year 

Drinking 

Drop  of  Dew 

Evening 

Evening,  Ode  to 

Evening  Star 

Evening  Wind— Spirit  that  ) 
breathest.  j 


Page 

Richard  Barnfield 

53 

Thomas  Pringle. . 

75 

Longfellow 

117 

Thomas  Carew... 

10 

Edwin  Arnold. . . . 

13 

Bellman 

21 

Wotton 

22 

T.  T.  Stoddart 

20 

John  Chalkhill. . . . 

21 

Isaak  Walton. 

23 

John  Keble 

12 

Bayard  Tailor... 

73 

Shelley 

31 

Hood. ... 

100 

Keats 

99 

Shelley 

99 

Mrs.  'Southey 

96 

T.  B.  Read 

100 

Willis 

69 

Lowell 

67 

Joanna  Baillie 

30 

Barry  Cornwall. . . 

77 

Herrick 

37 

Shakespeare 

113 

Thomas  Hill 

23 

Ebenezer Elliott. . . 

43 

Landor 

44 

Mary  Hountt 

42 

Tennyson 

103 

Camoens 

45 

Leigh  Hunt 

46 

Shelley 

80 

Bowles 

60 

Mary  Howitt 

95 

Percival 

88 

W.  C.  Bennett 

110 

Cowper 

110 

John  Logan 

24 

Wordsworth 

24 

Chaucer 

25 

Ben  Jonson 

107 

Wordsworth 

87 

Herrick 

37 

J.  Montgomery 

39 

Wordsworth 

40 

Lowell 

44 

I^ord  Surrey 

10 

William  Howitt. . . 

110 

Bryant 

96 

Shelley 

118 

Anacreon 

81 

Marvell 

14 

Tennyson 

104 

Collins 

105 

Campbell 

105 

Bryant 

104 

rage 

Evening  in  the  Alps Montgomery 106 

Fancy Keats Ill 

Fidelity Wordsworth 93 

Flower  and  Leaf Chaucer 3 

Flowers Hood 45 

Flowers Longfellow 47 

Fly Vincent  Bourne...  70 

Folding  of  the  Flocks Beaumont  & Fletcher  103 

Fountain Lowell 32 

Fringed  Gentian Bryant 94 

Frost  at  Midnight Coleridge 113 

Garden Marvell. ... 60 

Garden Cowley 61 

Grasshopper Anacreon 70 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket Leigh  Hunt 71 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket Keats 71 

Grasshopper,  Chirping  of Walter  Harte 71 

Green  Linnet Wordsworth 30 

Greenwood W.  L.  Bowles 60 

Grongar  Hill John  Dyer 101 

Gulf- Weed C.  G.  Fenner 87 

Hampton  Beach Whittier 88 

Harvest  Moon H.  K.  White 108 

Holly  Tree Southey 114 

Humble  Bee Emerson 71 

Hunter  of  the  Prairies Bryant 97 

Hunter’s  Song Barry  Cornwall. . . 98 

Husbandman John  Sterling 95 

Hymn  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouni.  Coleridge 119 

Hymn  to  Pan Keats 66 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers Horace  Smith 48 

Influence  of  Natural  Objects ....  Wordsworth 118 

Inscription  in  a Hermitage Thomas  Warton .. . 64 

Invocation  to Eain  in  Summer..  W.  C.  Bennet 77 

Ivy  Green Charles  Dickens..  101 

July John  Clare 59 

Lark Hogg 20 

Latter  Rain Jones  Very 100 

Lion  and  Giraffe Thomas  Pringle..  75 

Lion’s  Ride Freiligrath 74 

Little  Beach-Bird R.  II.  Dana 87 

Little  Streams Mary  Howitt 33 

March Wordsworth 11 

May Percival 15 

Meadows Herrick 94 

Midges  dance  aboon  the  Burn. ..  Robert  Tannahill.  81 

Midnight  Wind Motherwell 112 

Moan,  Moan,  ye  Dying  Gales...  Henry  Neele 86 

Moonrise Ernest  Jones 107 

Morning Shakespeare 18 

Morning  in  London Wordsworth. 17 

Mother  Nightingale Villegas. 57 

Mountain  Daisy Burns 38 

My  Heart ’s  in  the  Highlands...  Burns 98 

Nature Jones  Very 35 

Nature  and  the  Poets Keats 49 

Night  is  nigh  Gone Alex.  Montgomery  16 


INDEX 


Pag-e 

Night Blanco  White 109 

Nightingale Coleridge 55 

Nightingale Drummond 53 

Nightingale Gil  Vicente 57 

Nightingale Maria  Visscher .. . 57 

Nightingale Milton 53 

Nightingale  and  the  Dove Wordsworth 55 

Nightingale’s  Departure Charlotte  Smith. . . 5S 

Nightingale,  Ode  to Keats 54 

Night  Song Claudius 108 

November Hartley  Coleridge.  101 

Ocean J.  A.  Shea 83 

Owl Barry  Cornwall. . 109 

Owl Anonymous 110 

Pan Beaumont  & Fletcher  67 

Philomela Matthew  Arnold..  55 

Pine  Tree Lowell 114 

Primroses,  with  Morning  Dew. . Herrick 37 

Question Shelley. 35 

Rain  in  Summer. Longfellow 79 

Eedbreast Drummond 117 

Retirement Charles  Cotton 64 

Return  of  Spring Pierre  Ronsard. . . 10 

Reve  du  Midi Bose  Terry 65 

Rhodora Emerson 38 

Rose Waller 45 

Saxon  Song  of  Summer Anonymous 17 

Sea Barry  Cornwall..  84 

Sea— In  Calm Barry  Cornwall..  87 

Seaweed Longfellow 86 

Seneca  Lake Percival 89 

Skater's  Song Anonymous 118 

Skylark Shelley 18 

Small  Celandine Wordsworth. 36 

Snow-Drop Barry  Cornwall..  12 

Snow-Storm Emerson 116 

Soliloquy  on  a Grasshopper W.  Harte 71 

Song-Birds  on  a Sunday Anonymous 31 

Song  for  September..." T.  W.  Parsons 93 

Song  for  the  Seasons. Barry  Cornwall..  117 

Song  of  the  Swallow Anonymous 11 

Song:  On  a May  Morning. Milton 14 

Song — Phoebus  arise Drummond 14 

Song  to  May Lord  Thurlow 15 


Page 

Song— The  Lark Hartley  Coleridge.  20 

Song— Pack  clouds  away Thomas  Hey  wood.  20 

Song — See,  O See Lord  Bristol ... . . . 30 

Song  of  the  Brook Tennyson 34 

Song  of  Spring Edward  Tout 41 

Song — The  Greenwood  Tree Shakespeare 60 

Song  of  the  Wood  Nymphs Barry  Cornwall..  67 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds George  Darley 81 

lecond^ong— To  the  Same . ! ! ! \ Tennyson 109 

Sonnet — Autumn  Moon Thurlow 107 

Sonnet — To  a Bird  that  haunted  ) 

the  waters  of  Lake  Laaken  } Thurlow 116 

Spice  Tree John  Sterling 72 

Spring Anacreon 13 

Spring Beaumont  Fletcher  16 

Spring Tennyson 11 

Storm  Song Bayard  Taylor . . 85 

Stormy  Petrel Barry  Cornwall..  84 

Summer  Longings McCarthy 16 

Summer  Months ...  Motherwell. 17 

Summer  Storm Lowell 77 

Summer  Woods Mary  Howitt. 68 

Tiger William  Blake ... . 74 

Tis  the  last  Rose  of  Summer. . . Moore 97 

Trailing  Arbutus Rose  Terry 38 

Twilight Longfellow 85 

Violets.. Herrick 36 

Violets W.  W.  Story 45 

Voices  of  the  Grass Sarah  Roberts 59 

Wandering  Wind Mrs.  Hemans 82 

Waterfowl Bryant. 58 

Water!  The  Water Motherwell 33 

West  Wind,  Ode  to Shelley 82 

Wet  Sheet  and  a Plowing  Sea. . . A.  Cunningham. . . 85 

Wild  Honeysuckle Philip  Freneau .. . 43 

Willow  Song Mrs.  Hemans 69 

Windy  Night T.  B.  Read 112 

Winter  Song Holty 116 

Winter  Wind Dinah  Mvloch....  115 

Woods  in  Winter Longfellow. 115 

Yarrow  Unvisited Wordsworth 90 

Yarrow  Visited Wordsworth. 91 

Yarrow  Revisited Wordsworth 92 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


Mrs.  Hemans 

..  157 

Lucy  Gray 

Wordsworth 

158 

S.  Loxer 

..  126 

Lullaby 

Tennyson 

123 

Mrs.  Gilman 

. 161 

Morning-Glory 

Mrs.  Lowell 

168 

IF;  C.  Bennett 

,.  123 

Mother's  Heart 

Mrs.  Norton 

136 

IF]  C.  Bennett 

. 169 

Mother's  Hope 

L.  Blanchard 

136 

J.  T.  Fields 

. 164 

Mother's  Love 

T.  Burbidge 

137 

IF]  Allsion 

. 156 

My  Child 

J.  Pierpont 

175 

D.  M.  Moir 

. 174 

My  Plavmates 

Anonymous 

167 

C.  Mackay 

,.  161 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant 

D.  Sm  its 

166 

Mrs.  Browning  . . 

. 126 

On  the  Picture  of  an  Infant 

Leonidas 

125 

Madame  deSurville  127 

Open  Window 

Longfellow v 

168 

C.  Lamb 

,.  159 

Pet  Lamb 

Wordsworth .*. 

138 

Coleridge 

..  127 

Philip,  my  King 

Dinah  Mvloch. . . . 

125 

R.  A.  Willmott  . . . 

,.  164 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin 

Browning 

144 

Landor 

. 133 

Reconciliation 

Tennyson 

176 

Anonymous 

,.  153 

Saturday  Afternoon 

Willis 

148 

W.  Blake 

,.  162 

Schoolmistress 

. Shenstone 

149 

M.  Lamb 

..  124 

She  Came  and  Went 

Lowell 

168 

C.  Lamb 

..  124 

Shepherd  Boy 

L.  E.  Landon 

142 

Simonides 

..  156 

Three  Sons 

J.  Moultrie 

169 

Fulcher 

..  166 

Threnodv 

Emerson 

171 

John  Anster 

..  130 

To  a Child 

Hood 

130 

Anonymous 

..  140 

To  a Child 

J.  Sterling 

1S5 

G.  Darley 

..  143 

To  a Child 

Anonymous 

164 

C.  Lamb 

..  130 

To  a Child  during  Sickness 

L.  Hunt 

182 

Wordsworth 

..  156 

To  a Sleeping  Child 

J.  Wilson 

188 

Wordsworth 

..  141 

To  Ferdinand  Seymour 

Mrs.  Norton 

124 

Hood 

..  159 

To  George  M 

185 

Wordsworth 

..  128 

ToH.C 

Wordsworth 

132 

Anonymous 

To  J.  II 

Leigh  Hunt 

181 

T.  Westwood 

..  163 

To  my  Daughter 

. Hood 

139 

W.  Blake 

..  162 

Town  Child  and  Country  Child. . 

A.  Cunningham... 

127 

Anonymous 

..  142 

Under  my  Window' 

, T.  Westwood 

159 

Mary  Hotcitt 

..  140 

Visit  from  St.  Nicholas 

C.  C.  Moore 

147 

L.  E.  Landon 

. 143 

We  are  Seven 

, Wordsworth 

100 

Wordsworth 

..  165 

Widow  and  Child 

, Tennyson 

176 

INDEX 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


And  doth  not  a Meeting  like  this 

Auld  Lang  Syne 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse 

Cape-Cottage  at  Sunset 

Champagne  Rose 

Come,  Send  round  the  Wine. . . . 

Christmas 

Early  Friendship 

Farewell ! But  whenever  you 

welcome  the  Hour 

Fill  the  Bumper  Fair. 

Fire  of  Drift-wood 

Friend  of  my  Soul 

From  in  Memoriam 

Give  me  the  old 


Pa  (re 

Moore 1S6 

Burns 192 

Thackeray 189 

IF.  B.  Glazier 183 

J.  Kenyon 185 

Moore 187 

Wither 195 

De  Yere 179 

Moore. 18S 

Moore 186 

Longfellow 182 

Moore 188 

Tennyson 179 

R.  H.  Messing er. . . 1S4 


How  stands  the  Glass  Around, ) 

my  Boys J 

Mahogany  Tree 

Night  at  Sea 

O Fill  the  Wine-cup  High 

Old  Familiar  Faces 

Saint  Peray 

Sparkling  and  Bright 

The  Passage 

To  Thomas  Moore 

Under  the  Holly  Bough 

We  have  been  Friends  together. 
When  shall  we  Three  meet  again 

What  might  be  Done 

Wreathe  the  Bowl 


Page 

Anonymous 187 

Thackeray.. 19 

L.E.  London 19 

R.  F.  Williams. ...  19 

C.  Lamb 183 

T.  W.  Parsons 191 

O.  Hoffm  an 184 

TJ  hland 182 

Byron 188 

C.  Mackay 195 

Mrs.  Norton 183 

Anonymous 179 

C.  Mackay 196 

Moore 185 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


Absence. Mrs.  Kemble 

Allan  Percy— It  was  a beau-  » M Norton 

teous  Lady  richly  dressed.,  f Mr8‘  Norton 

An  Earnest  Suit Sir  T.  Wyat 

Annabel  Lee E.  A.  Poe 

Annie  Laurie Anonymous 

Annoyer,  The N.  P.  Willis 

Ask  me  no  more Tennyson 

At  the  Church  Gate Thackeray 

Auld  Robin  Gray Lady  A.  Barnard 

Awakening  of  Endymion L.E.  Landon 

Ballad — Not  in  Winter Hood 

Ballad— Sigh  on.  Sad  Heart Hood 

Beauty  Clear  and  Fair Beaumont  & Fletcher 

Bertha  in  the  Lane Mrs.  Browning  . . . 

Blest  as  the  immortal  Gods Sappho 

Blissful  Day Burns 

Bloom  hath  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary  Motherwell 

Bonnie  Leslie Burns 

Bridal  of  Andalla Anonymous 

Bridal  Song II.  IT.  Milman 

Brook-side,  The R.  M.  MiVnes 

Burial  of  Love Bryant. 

Ca’  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes. . . Burns 

Canzonet T.  Watson 

Castara W.  Habington 

Changes R.  B.  Lytton 

Cheat  of  Cupid Anacreon 

Come  away,  Death Shakespeare 

Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud. . . Tennyson 

Coming  through  the  Eye Anonymous 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth Shakespeare 

Cupid  and  Campaspe J.  Lyly. 

Day-Dream Tennyson 

Deceitfulness  of  Love Anonymous 

Discourse  with  Cupid Ben  jonson 

Disdain  Returned T.  Carew 

Dora Te/rvnyson 

Dream Byron. 

Epithalamion Spenser 

Epithalamium J.  G.  C.  Brainard . 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes KeaU  

Evelyn  Hope Browning 

Excuse M.  Arnold 

Exequies,  The T.  Stanley 

Fair  Ines Hood 

Fairest  thin"  in  Mortal  Eyes Charles  of  Orleans 

Farewell  to  Nancy Burns 

Fireside Nathaniel  Colton. . 

Flower  o’  Dumblane R.  Tannahill , 

Florence  Yane P.  P.  Cooke 

Fly  not  Yet Moore 

Fly  to  the  Desert Moore 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray Bishop  Percy 

Gentle  Hugh  Herries A.  Cunnitt gliam . . . 

Girl  of  Cadiz Byron 

Go  where  Glory  waits  Thee ....  Moore 


283 
320 

248 
828 

265 

259 
296 
275 

312 
281 
278 

293 
250 

313 

260 
340 
307 
268 
226 
330 
278 
328 

263 

253 
252 
820 

287 

257 
274 
290 

284 

249 
227 

288 
249 

254 
238 

294 
330 
336 
220 
324 
821 

258 
268 
328 

264 
838 

266 
322 
286 
269 
213 
267 
262 
269 


Groomsman  to  his  Mistress Parsons 283 

Health,  A EC.  Pinkney 279 

Hear,  ye  Ladies Beaumont  & Fletcher  250 

Here’s  a Health Burns 263 

Hermit,  The Goldsmith 216 

Highland  Mary Burns 324 

How  sweet  it  is  to  Love Dryden 256 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  Love  Ileber 837 

If  I desire  with  pleasant  Songs. . T.  Burbidge 2SS 

Indifference M.  Arnold 321 

In  a Year Browning 298 

Irish  Melody D.  F.  McCarthy  . . . 271 

It  might  have  Been IF.  C.  Williamson.  297 

Jeannie  Morrison Motherwell 308 

Jenny  Kissed  Me L.  Hunt 292 

Jock  of  Hazeldean Sir  W.  Scott 234 

John  Anderson Burns 340 

Kulnasatz,  my  Reindeer Anonymous 260 

Lady  Clare Tennyson 237 

Laodamia Wordsworth 325 

Lass  of  Ballochmyle Burns 265 

Letters,  The Tennyson 240 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air Shelley 260 

Lochinvar Sir  W.  Scott 285 

Locksley  Hall Tennyson 301 

Lord  Lovel Anonymous 210 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly W.  Allingham. 270 

Lover  to  the  Glow-Worms Marvell 251 

Love Coleridge 232 

Love Anonymous 322 

Love  Song G.  Barley 280 

Love  Not Mrs.  Norton 329 

Love’s  History C.  Swain 323 

Love’s  Last  Message T.  L.  Beddoes 328 

Love’s  Philosophy Shelley 261 

Love  in  the  Valley G.  Meredith 236 

Love  is  a Sickness Daniel 247 

Love  not  Me Anonymous 257 

Love  Unrequited Anonymous 292 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  Part Byron 261 

Maiden’s  Choice Anonymous 285 

Maid's  Lament Landor 292 

Mariana  in  the  South Tennyson 299 

Mary  of  Castle  Cary II.  Macrdel. 229 

Maud  Muller Whittier 811 

Merry  may  the  keel  Rowe Anonymous 264 

Milk-Maid’s  Song C.  Marlowe 258 

Milk-Maid’s  Mother’s  Answer.. . Sir  W.  Raleigh 258 

Miller’s  Daughter Tennyson 277 

Misconceptions Browning 293 

Molly  Carew Lover 290 

Mrs.Eliz.  Wheeler Herrick 251 

MyNanieO A . Cunningham. . . 267 

My  Love Lowell 277 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie. . Motherwell 809 

u My  Love  has  Talked  ” Tennyson 386 

My  Wife’s  a winsome  wee  Thing  Burns 887 


si 

\ 'H 


X 


INDEX 


Natura  Naturans 

Night  Piece 

Not  ours  the  Tows 

Now  Sleeps  the  Crimson  Petal. . 

Nun 

Nut-brown  Maid 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  W ind  can  Blow 

Old  Story 

One  way  of  Love 

O ! Tell  me  Love 

O,  saw  ye  the  Lass 

O,  that  'twere  Possible 

Orpheus  to  Beasts 

Panglory's  Wooing  Song. 

Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Philomela’s  Ode 

Poet's  Bridal  Song 

Poet’s  Song  to  his  Wife 

Portrait 

Bed,  Bed  Bose 

Bobin  Adair 

Eobin  Hood  and  Allen-a-dale . . . 

Eory  O’More 

Eosalie 

Bose  and  the  Gauntlet 

Euth 

Seaman’s  Happy  Eeturn 

Serenade 

Serenade 

Serrana  

Shall  I Tell 

Shepherd’s  Idyl 

Shepherd’s  Eesolution 

She  is  a Maid  of  Artless  Grace . . 

Sir  Cauline 

Song — To  thy  Lover 

Song — Ask  me  no  More 

Song — The  Heath  this  Night. . . . 

Song — Love  me  if  I Live 

Song— Sing  the  old  Song. 

Song — Day  in  Melting  Purple. . . 

Song — How  Delicious 

Song — Why  so  Pale 

Song — A W eary  Lot 

Song — Strive  not,  Yain  Lover. . . 
Song— Gather  ye  Bose-Buds 


Page 


A.  H.  Clough 286 

Herrick 253 

B.  Barton 336 

Tennyson 273 

L.Hunt 284 

Anonymous 204 

Burns 264 

Anonymous 233 

Browning 293 

Anonymous 278 

Anonymous 267 

Tennyson 306 

Lovelace 305 

G.  Fletcher 252 

N.  Breton 247 

Jt.  Greene 256 

A.  Cunningham...  339 
Barry  Cornwall. . . 339 

Anacreon 279 

Burns 265 

Anonymous 263 

Anonymous 211 

Lover 289 

W.  Allston 2S0 

J.  Sterling 310 

Hood 275 

Anonymous 219 

Hood 276 

E.  C.  Pinkney. 276 

Lope  De  Mendoza . 229 

W.  Browne 250 

Tennyson 273 

Wither 285 

Gil  Vicente 276 

Anonymous 199 

Crashaw 255 

Carew 256 

Sir  W.  Scott 262 

Barry  Cornwall...  272 

A.  He  Vere 281 

Maria  Brooks 282 

Campbell 284 

Sir  J.  Suckling 285 

Sir  W.  Scott 300 

Lovelace 288 

Herrick 330 


Sonnet- 

Sonnet- 


Sonnet — Why  art  thou  Silent. 


Sweet  William’s  Farewell  to 
Black-Eyed  Susan 


To- 

To- 

To- 


To  Althea — From  Prison . 


, Shakespeare 

Paso 
. 241 

Sir  Pf Sidney 

. 246 

Drummond  ~. 

. 247 

Michael  Angelo.. 

. 247 

Michael  Angelo. . 

. 261 

Wordsworth 

. 307 

Anonymous 

. 215 

leaumont  & Fletcher  250 

J.  F.  Waller 

. 231 

Byron 

. 263 

. 316 

Anonymous ~. 

J.  Norris. 

. 255 

Gay. 

. 218 

G.  Darley 

. 280 

Beaum.  & Fletcher  251 

Rose  Terry 

. 316 

A.  Cunnitigham.. 

. 266 

Shelley 

Wordsworth. ..... 

. 278 

W.  R.  Spencer.... 

. 286 

Philostrat/u8. 

. 249 

Lovelace 

Lovelace 

Lovelace 

Horace 

Burns. 

J.  R.  Drake 

. 337 

257 

248 

212 


Tomb,  The T.  Stanley. 

Triumph  of  Chavis Ben  Jomon 

Truth’s  Integrity Anonymous 

Waly,  Waly. Anonymous 

Watch  Song. Anonymous 

We  Parted  in  Silence Mrs.  Crawford . 

Welcome,  The Thomas  Davis. 

Welcome,  Welcome W.  Browne 

Were  I but  his  Own  Wife Mrs.  Downing 271 

When  We  Two  Parted Byron 297 

White  Bose Anonymous 248 

Widow  Machree Lover 291 

Winifreda. Anonymous 329 

You  Meaner  Beauties Wotton 251 

Young  Bei chan  and  Susie  Pye..  Anonymous 20S 

Zara’s  Ear-Eings Anonymous .......  230 


231 

298 

272 

259 


POEMS  OE  AMBITION. 


American  Flag 

Ballad  of  Agincourt 

Bannock-Burn 

Battle-Field 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 

Boadicea 

Border  Ballad 

Bull-Fight  of  GazuL 

Cameronian’s  Dream 

Carmen  Bellicosum 

Casabianca 

Cavalier’s  Song. 

Charlie  is  my  Darling 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at ) 

Balaklava. f 

Chevy  Chase 

Covenanter’s  Battle  Chant 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib 

Excelsior 

Gallant  Grahams 

Give  a Bouse 

God  Save  the  King 

Hame,  Hame,  Hame  ! 

Harp,  that  once  through  Tara’s  i 

Halls f 

Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton 

Here’s  to  the  King,  Sir ! 

Here's  a Health  to  them  that’s  ) 

Awa’ j 

Hohenlinden 

Horatius 


J.  R.  Drake 381 

M.  Drayton 358 

Burns 360 

Bryant 383 

Campbell 387 

Cowper 352 

Sir  W.  Scott 372 

Anonymous 353 

J.Hyslop 367 

G.  H McMaster.. . . 379 

Mrs.  Hemans 389 

Motherwell 359 

Anonymous 369 

Tennyson 8S6 

Anonymous 355 

Motherwell 366 

Byron 350 

Longfellow 396 

Anonymous 368 

R.  Browning 363 

Anonymous 376 

A.  Cunningham...  374 

Moore 874 

Callistratus 351 

Anonymous 369 

Bums 870 

Campbell 8S5 

Macaulay 843 


Horatian  Ode 

How  they  Brought  the  Good  ) 
News  from  Ghent  to  Aix. . . f 
Incident  of  the  French  Camp. . . 

Indian  Death  Song 

Indian  Death  Song. 

It  is  Great  for  our  Country  to  Die 

Ivry 

Kenmure’s  On  and  Awa’ 

Korner's  Sword  Song. 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers. 

Leonidas 

Lochaber  No  More 

Lochiel’s  Warning 

Marco  Bozzaris 

Memory  of  the  Dead 

Men  of  Forty-Eight 

Naseby 

Ode— How  Sleep  the  Brave 

Ode — A State 

Old  Constitution 

On  a Bust  of  Dante 

On  a Sermon  Against  Glory 

“ O Mother  of  a Mighty  Bace  ”. . 

Our  State 

Peace  to  the  Slumberers 

Pericles  and  Aspasia. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Sea  Fight 

Seaman's  Song. 

Shan  Yan  Yocht. 


Marvell 368 

R.  Browning. 376 

R.  Browning 3S5 

Anne  Hunter 377 

Schiller 378 

J.  G.  Percival. 351 

Macaulay. 360 

Burns 870 

Horner 8S4 

Mrs.  Hemans 3J8 

G.  Croly. 352 

Allan  Ramsay 368 

Campbell 871 

Halleck 391 

J.  K.  Ingram 893 

G.  Massey 893 

Macaulay. 862 

W.  Collins 375 

Sir  W.  Jones 394 

O.  W.  nolmes 383 

T.  W.  Parsons 395 

Aken8ide 895 

Bt'yant. 382 

Whittier 8S2 

Moore 875 

G.  Croly 852 

Scott 873 

Anonymous 8S8 

Anonymous 390 

Anonymous.  375 


INDEX. 


xi 


Sonnets 

Sonnets 

Song. 

Song  of  Marion’s  Men  . . 
Song  of  the  Greek  Poet. 
Star-Spangled  Banner.  . 


Page 

Milton 365 


...  Wordsworth 394 

. . Moore 374 

..  Bryant. 380 

. ..  Byron 390 

. . F.S.  Key 380 


Sun  Rises  Bright  in  France 

Sonnet — To  a very  Illustrious  j 

Nobleman j 

Wae’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie. . . 

When  Banners  are  Waving 

Ye  Mariners  of  England. . ..... 


Cunningham . 
Lord  Thurlow 

W.  Glen 

Anonymous. . . . 
Campbell 


374 

394 

373 

366 

386 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


Cologne 

D evil's  Thoughts 

Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 

Essence  of  Opera 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray 

Faithless  Sally  Brown 

Farewell  to  Tobacco 

Friend  of  Humanity  and  Knife-  j 

Grinder J 

Good  Ale 

Groves  of  Blarney.. 

Hag,  The 

Heir  of  Linne 

Hypochondriacus 

Irishman 

Lady  at  Sea 

Little  Brown  Man 

Malbrouck 


Coleridge 422 

Coleridge 422 

Cowper 416 

Anonymous 425 

Hood 429 

Hood 429 

C.Lamb 426 

G.  Canning 423 

J.  Still. 402 

It.  A.  Milliken 436 

Herrick 405 

Anonymous 399 

C.  Lamb 426 

W.  Maginn 436 

Hood 432 

Beranger 424 

Anonymous 405 


Massacre  of  the  Macpherson 

Molony’s  Lament 

Mr.  Molony’s  Account  of  the  Ball 

Old  and  Young  Courtier 

Rail,  The 

Rape  of  the  Lock 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 
Song  of  an  imprisoned  Student. 

St.  Patrick  was  a Gentleman 

St.  Patrick  of  Ireland,  my  Dear. 

Table  of  Errata 

Tam  O’Shanter 

Take  thy  Old  Cloake  about  Thee 

Town  of  Passage 

Twenty-Eight  and  Twenty-Nine 
What  Mr.  Robinson  thinks  | 

about  Governor  B j 

White  Squall 


W.  E.  Aytoun 419 

Thackeray 438 

Thackeray 439 

Anonymous 403 

George  H.  Clark  . . 441 

Pope 406 

Browning 428 

G.  Canning 424 

II.  Bennett 434 

W.  Maginn 435 

Hood  430 

Burns 42'  I 

AnonymoxiS 402 

Father  Front 437 

TF  M.  Praed 440 

Lowell 441 

Thackeray 432 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Braes  of  Yarrow William  Hamilton  450 

Break,  Break,  Break Tennyson 520 

Bridge  of  Sighs Hood 496 

Bridal  Song  and  Dirge T.L.  Beddoes 510 

Bridal  Dirge Barry  Cornwall . . 511 

Bonnie  George  Campbell Anonymous 456 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore Charles  Wolfe 514 

“Calm  is  the  Night” Henry  Heine 518 

Castle  by  the  Sea. Uhlamd 519 

Child  Noryce Anonymous 446 

Coronach Sir  W.  Scott. 506 

Cruel  Sister Anonymous 452 

Days  that  are  no  More Tennyson 520 

Death-Bed Hood 500 

Death-Bed J.  Aldrich 501 

Desolation II.  T.  Tuckerman..  519 

Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow Anonymous 449 

Dream  of  Eugene  Aram Hood 485 

Dirge Tennyson 507 

Dirge W.  S.  Roscoe 509 

Dirge T.L.  Beddoes 509 

Dirge C.  G.  Eastman 510 

Dirge Mrs.  Hemans 511 

Dirge  of  Imogen Shakespeare 507 

Dirge  of  Jephthah’s  Daughter. ..  Herrick 508 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline Collins 509 

Dirge  for  a Young  Girl J.  T.  Fields 510 

Edward,  Edward Anonymous 454 

Eleuv  on  Captain  Henderson  . . . Burns 504 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  II Ben  Jonson 512 

Fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan Anonymous 447 

Fair  Helen Anonymous 457 

Fishermen C.  Kingsley 473 

Fishing  Song Hose  Terry. 519 

Funeral  Hymn D.  Mallett 505 

Hester C.  Lamb 501 

How’s  my  Boy S.  Dobell 483 

Hunter’s  Vision Bryant 489 

Ichabod Whittier 512 

InchcapeRock Southey 480 

Iphigenia  and  Agamemnon Landor 470 

King  of  Denmark’s  Ride Mrs.  Norton 478 

Lament Shelley 518 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant. . Lady  Duffer  in 495 

Lament  of  the  Border  Widow..  Anonymous 456 

Lamentation  for  Celin Anonymous 471 

B 


Last  Journey 

Lord  Randal 

Lord  Ullin’s  Daughter 

Lost  Leader 

Lycidas , 

Mariner’s  Dream 

May  Queen 

Mother’s  Last  Song 

Nymph  Complaining  for  the  ) 

Death  of  her  Fawn j 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 
On  the  Funeral  of  Charles  the  I 

First j 

On  the  Death  of  George  the  | 

Third f 

O ! Snatched  away  in  Beauty’s  j 

Bloom j 

O 1 Breathe  not  his  Name 

Pauper’s  Deathbed 

Pauper’s  Drive 

Peace  ! what  do  Tears  Avail  ?. . . 

Phantom 

Poet’s  Epitaph 

Prisoner  of  Chillon 

Rare  Willy  Drowned  in  Yarrow 

Sea 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Snow-Storm 

Softly  Woo  Away  her  Breath... 

Sohrab  and  Rustum 

Solitude 

Song — Yarrow  Stream 

Song — O Mary  go 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land 

Song  of  the  Shirt 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  | 

Thomas  Hood j 

The  Moon  was  A-waning 

Tom  Bowling. 

Twa  Brothers 

Twa  Corbies 

Very  Mournful  Ballad 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 

When  I Beneath 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 

Young  Airly 


Mrs.  Southey 499 

Anonymous 454 

Campbell 479 

Browning 513 

Milton 502 

W.  Dimond 482 

Tennyson 490 

Barry  Cornwall...  497 

Marvell 494 

Cowper 480 

WL.  Bowles 513 

II  Smith 514 

Byron 506 

Moore 506 

Mrs.  Southey 49S 

T.  Noel 500 

Barry  Cornwall . . . 501 

Bayard  Taylor.  . . 511 

E.  Elliott 517 

Byron 474 

Anonymous 451 

It.  II.  Stoddard 47S 

Anonymous 445 

C.  G.  Eastman. . . . 488 

Barry  Cornwall...  489 

M.  Arnold 458 

11  K.  White 518 

J.  Logan 452 

C.  Kingsley 457 

Sails 498 

.Hood 497 

B.  Simmons 516 

J.  Hogg 484 

C.  Dibdin 484 

Anonymous 455 

Anonymous 456 

Anonymous 472 

Longfellow 515 

Motherwell 517 

Longfellow 481 

Anonymous 4S7 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


Ariel's  Songs 

Birth  of  Venus 

Comus,  a Mask 

Culprit  Fay 

Djinns,  The 

Fairy  Queen 

Fairy  Song 

Fairy,  Song  of 

Fairies’  Song. 

Fairies,  Song  of 

Fairies  of  Caldon  Low 

| Fairies’ Farewell 

Fairies 

Hylas 

Kilmeny 

King  Arthur's  Death 

Kubla  Khan 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Merci 


Page 


Shakespeare 546 

Anonymous 545 

Milton 550 

J.  R.  Drake 536 

Victor  Hugo 581 

Anonymous 528 

Keats 529 

Shakespeare 529 

Anonymous 529 

Randolph 530 

Mary  Howitt 535 

R.  Corbett 544 

TV.  Allingham 544 

B.  Taylor 563 

Hogg 531 

Anonymous 523 

Coleridge 578 

Keats 530 


Lady  of  Shallott 

Lorelei 

Merry  Pranks  .of  Robin-Good  \ 

Fellow ) 

Midnight  Review 

O ! Where  do  Fairies  Hide  ) 

their  Heads  ? f 

Raven,  The 

Rhcecus 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. . . 

Siren’s  Song 

Song — The  Fairy  Beam 

Song — A Lake  and  a Fairy-boat. 

Song — Hear,  sweet  Spirit 

Thomas,  the  Rhymer 

Water  Lady 

Water  Fay 

Wee,  Wee  Man 


Page 


Tennyson 548 

H Heine 547 

Anonymous 527 

Zedlitz 568 

T.  H Bayly 536 

Poe 578 

Lowell 566 

Coleridge 569 

TV.  Browne 546 

Ben  Jonson 545 

Hood 548 

Coleridge 546 

Anonymous 525 

Hood 547 

H.  Heine 547 

Anonymous 520 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


i 


Abou  Ben  Adhem 

Abstract  of  Melancholy 

Address  to  the  Mummy  at ) 

Belzoni’s  Exhibition j 

Age  of  Wisdom 

Alexander’s  Feast 

All  Earthly  Joy  Returns  in  Pain 

Allegro  L’ 

Arrahmore 

Arsenal  at  Springfield 

Balder 

Barclay  of  Ury 

Battle  of  Blenheim 

Be  Patient 

Bells,  The 

Bells  of  Shandon 

Bucket,  The 

Burns 

Burns,  At  the  Grave  of 

Canadian  Boat  Song 

Contented  Mind 

“ Contemplate  all  this  Work  ”, . . 

Constantia — Singing. 

Cotter’s  Saturday  Night 

Cowper’s  Grave 

Crowded  Street 

Death 

Death  of  the  Virtuous 

Death’s  Final  Conquest 

Dejection — An  Ode 

Delight  in  Disorder 

Deserted  Village 

Each  and  All 

Egyptian  Serenade 

Elegy  written  in  a Country  ) 

Church- Yard j 

End  of  the  Play 

Epitaph  on  the  admirable  Dra-  ) 
matic  Poet,  W.  Shakespeare  f 

Evening  Bells 

Exhortation 

Fisher’s  Cottage 

Footsteps  of  Angels 

Forging  of  the  Anchor 

Fountain 

Garden  of  Love 

Good-Bye 

Good,  Great  Man 

Good  Time  Coming 

Grave  of  a Poetess 

Greenwood  Shrift 

Guy 

Hallowed  Ground 


L.  Hunt 591 

Robert  Burton 661 

Horace  Smith 589 

Thackeray 666 

Dry  den. 609 

William  Dunbar. . 585 

Milton 646 

Moore 681 

Longfellow 597 

Anonymous 588 

Whittier 586 

Southey 596 

R.  C.  Trench 686 

K.  A.  Poe 607 

F.  Mahoney 606 

S.  Woodworth 598 

Whittier 638 

Wordsworth 636 

Moore 614 

J.  Sylvester. 650 

Tennyson 683 

Shelley 613 

Burns 6S9 

Mrs.  Browning 630 

Bryant 658 

W.  E.  C banning  . . 704 

Mrs.  Barbauld 710 

J.  Shirley 699 

Coleridge 664 

Herrick  615 

Goldsmith 600 

Emerson 687 

G.  W.  Curtis 614 

Gray 710 

Thackeray 670 

Milton 623 

Moore 608 

Shelley 645 

Henry  Heine. 590 

Longfellow 706 

S.  Ferguson 594 

Wordsworth 657 

W.  Blake 6SS 

Emerson 659 

Coleridge 676 

C.  Mackay 684 

Thomas  MRler 640 

. R.&  C.  Southey...  702 

, Emerson 660 

. Campbell 692 


Happy  Valley 

..  T.  Miller 

. 680 

Happy  Life 

. . Wotton 

. 693 

Harmosan 

. . R.C.  Trench 

. 587 

Heavenly  Wisdom 

. . J.  Logan 

, 694 

Hebe 

. . Lowell 

616 

Hence  all  you  Vain  Delights. . 

.Beaumont  & Fletch  er  662 

Hermione 

. . Barry  Cornwall.. 

. 617 

Hermit 

. . Beattie 

, 700 

Highland  Girl 

. . Wordsworth 

618 

Honest  Poverty 

. . Burns 

, 6S3 

Human  Frailty. 

. . Cowper 

, 675 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty. 

. . Shelley 

. 655 

Hymn  of  the  Church- Yard... . 

. . J.  Bethune 

. 708 

If  that  were  true 

. . Frances  Brown. 

685 

I am  a Friar  of  Orders  Gray . . 

. . J.  O'Keefe 

, 666 

Influence  of  Music 

. . Shakespeare 

, 611 

Is  it  Come  ? 

. . Frances  Brown . . . 

6S4 

King  Death 

. . Barry  Cornwall.. 

. 703 

Last  Leaf 

..  O.W.  Holmes 

. 669 

Life 

. . Barry  Cornwall . . 

. 703 

Life 

. . H.  King 

707 

Life  and  Death 

. . Anonymous 

702 

Light  of  Stars 

..  Longfellow 

69S 

Lines  on  a Skeleton 

. . Anonymous 

. 707 

Lords  of  Thule 

. . Anonymous 

585 

Losses 

. . Frances  Brown.. 

. 676 

Lost  Church 

. . Uhland 

. 688 

Lye,  The 

..  Anonymous 

651 

Macaulay 

..  Landor 

. 641 

Man 

..  G.  Herbert 

. 694 

Man’s  Mortality 

..  S.  Wasted 

. 707 

Margaret  Hussey 

. . Skelton 

. 616 

Means  to  attain  Happy  Life. .. 

. . Lvord  Surrey 

. 646 

Mermaid  Tavern,  Lines  on 

. . Keats 

. 624 

Minstrel,  The 

. . Goethe 

. 642 

Mother  Margery 

. . G.S.  Burleigh , . . . 

. 621 

Music 

..  Dry  den 

. 611 

Mutability 

..  Shelley 

. 673 

My  Mind  to  me  a Kingdom  is. 

..  W.  Byrd 

. 652 

Night 

. . Habington 

. 69S 

No  More 

. . A.  II.  Clough 

. 673 

Nymph’s  Song 

..  Wither...' 

. 622 

Ode — Bards  of  Passion 

. . Keats 

. 641 

Ode — Intimations  of  Immortality  Wordsworth 

. 695 

Ode — To  Himself. 

. . Ben  Jonson 

. 625 

Ode  on  a Grecian  Urn 

. 645 

Ode  to  Melancholy 

. . Hood 

. 662 

Ode  to  Duty 

. 674 

Old 

. 667 

Old  Maid 

...  Mrs.  Welby 

620 

On  a Lady  Singing 

. 613 

On  Anacreon 

. 623 

One  Gray  Hair 

. 667 

INDEX 


On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother's  j 

Picture ) 

On  the  Death  of  Burns 

On  Chapman’s  Homer 

O ! The  Pleasant  Days  of  Old!. . 

Passions — An  Ode 

Penseroso  II 

Perilla 

Petition  to  Time 

Poet's  Thought 

Poor  Man’s  Song 

Problem 

Psalm  of  Life 

Queen  of  May 

Qua  Cursum  Ventus 

Reply 

Resolution  and  Independence. . . 

Robin  Hood 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest 

Sir  Marmaduke 

Sit  Down,  Sad  Soul 

Slave  Singing  at  Midnight 

Sleep ~ 

Sleep,  The 

Smoking  Spiritualized 

Shakespeare 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 

“ She  was  a Phantom  of  Delight” 

Shepherd’s  Hunting 

Soldier’s  Dream 

Song — 0 say  not  that  my  Heart. 

SoDg— Still  to  be  neat 

Song— O Lady  Leave 

Song — Sweet  are  the  Thoughts. 
Song — What  pleasure  have  great 

Princes 

Song— Time  is  a feathered  Thing 

Song  of  the  Forge 

Sonnet — ’T  is  much,  immortal  \ 

Beauty ) 

Sonnet— The  Nightingale  is  mute 


Page 

• Cowper 

. 599 

. W.  Boscoe 

. 635 

, Heats 

. 639 

, Frances  Brown.. 

. 678 

Collins 

. 611 

, Milton 

. 648 

Herrick  

. 667 

, Barry  Cornwall.. 

. 671 

. Barry  Cornwall.. 

. 642 

. Anonymous 

. 679 

, Emerson 

. 689 

. Longfellow 

. 706 

. G.Darley 

. 615 

. A.  H.  Clough 

. 673 

. J.  Norris 

. 650 

Wordsworth 

. 643 

. Keats 

. 677 

, Whittier 

. 695 

, Colman  the  younger  666 

. Barry  Cornwall. . 

. 705 

, Longfellow 

. 701 

, J.  Dowland 

. 702 

, Mrs.  Browning  . . 

. 701 

Anonymous 

. 661 

J.  Sterling 

. 624 

Byron 

. 617 

’ Wordsworth 

. 619 

Wither 

. 625 

, Campbell 

. C.  Wolfe 

. 596 
. 674 

Ben  JonsO'n 

. 615 

. Hood 

. 617 

II.  Green. 

. 650 

j-  W.  Byrd 

. 651 

; Anonymous 

. 671 

Anonymous 

. 593 

Thurlow 

. 616 

i Thurlow 

. 641 

Sonnet — Who  Best  can  Paint. . . 

Sonnet — If  Accident 

Sonnets.— Triumphing  Chariots. 

Sonnet — Sad  is  our  Youth 

Sonnets 

Sonnet— Of  mortal  Glory 

Soul’s  Defiance 

Stanzas — Thought  is  deeper 

Stanzas — My  life  is  like 

Steamboat,  The 

Strife,  The 

Sturdy  rock,  for  all  his  Strength 

Sunrise  comes  To-morrow 

Sunken  City 

Sweet  Pastoral 

Sweet  is  the  Pleasure 

Tables  Turned 

Temperance ; or,  the  Cheap  ( 

Physician j 

Thanatopsis 

There  bo  Those 

There  are  Gains  for  all  our  ) 

Losses f 

Time’s  Cure 

To  My  Sister 

Two  Oceans 

Two  Brides 

Uhland 

Upon  Julia’s  Recovery 

Yerses,  supposed  to  be  writ-  ) 

ten  by  Alex.  Selkirk j 

Victorious  Men  of  Earth 

Village  Blacksmith 

Virtue 

Vision,  The 

White  Island 

Who  is  Sylvia  ? 

Why  thus  Longing  ? 

Winter  being  over 

Woman’s  Voice 

World.  The 


Page 

Thurlow 642 

Thurlow 653 

Drummond 654 

Aubrey  De  Vere...  672 

Milton 676 

Drummond 707 

Lavinia  Stoddard . 672 

C.  P.  Oranch 656 

II.  II.  Wilde 673 

O.  W.  Holmes 592 

Tennyson 700 

Anonymous 699 

Anonymous 6S2 

Muller 659 

N.  Breton 654 

J.  S.  Dwight 656 

Wordsworth 657 

Crashaw 660 

Bryant 709 

B.  Barton 687 

It.  H.  Stoddard. ...  672 

Anonymous 671 

Whittier 619 

J.  Sterling. 590 

B.  H.  Stoddard 619 

W.  A.  Butler 640 

Herrick, 617 

Cowper 591 

J.  Shirley 597 

Longfellow 592 

G.  Herbert. 699 

Burns. 632 

Herrick 679 

Shakespeare 617 

Harriet  Winslow. . 675 

Ann  Collins 653 

K Arnold 614 

t Tones  Very 686 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


All  Well 

Another’s  Sorrow 

Bee,  The 

Believers,  For 

Call,  The 

Centennial  Ode 

Charity 

Charity  and  Humility 

Christmas 

Christmas  Hymn 

Christ  Dying,  Rising,  and  1 

Reigning J 

Christ’s  Message 

Chorus 

Complaining 

“ Come  unto  me  ” 

Creator  and  Creatures 

Darkness  is  Thinning 

Dead  Christ 

Death 

Dedication  of  a Church 

Delight  in  God  Only 

Desiring  to  Love 

Dirge 

Divine  Ejaculation 

Divine  Love 

Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 

Each  sorrowful  Mourner 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer 

Easter 

Easter  Hymn 

Elder  Scripture 

Emigrants  in  Bermudas 

Epiphany 

“Eternal  beam  of  Light  Di- 
vine”   


H Bonar 770 

W.  Blake 785 

II.  Vaughan 717 

C.  Wesley 756 

G.  Herbert 733 

J.  Pierpont  752 

J.  Montgomery 756 

Henry  More. 747 

Tennyson 743 

A.  Dommeti 743 

Watts 730 

Doddridge 727 

Milman 787 

G.  Herbert 735 

Mrs.  Barbauld 737 

Watts 782 

St.  Gregory 715 

Mrs.  Ilowe 742 

C.  Wesley 762 

Drummond 749 

F Quarles 790 

C.  Wesley 757 

Croly 762 

J.  Quarles 788 

Tersteegen 757 

Pope 759 

PrudenUus 764 

II.  Vaughan 715 

. G.  Herbert 731 

. T.  Blackburn 782 

. Keble 718 

. Marvell 745 

. Heber 725 

j-  C.  Wesley 789 


Example  of  Christ 

Exhortation  to  Prayer. 

Fasting. 

Feast,  The 

Field  of  the  World 

Flower,  The 

For  New-Year's  Day 

For  those  that  wait  for  full  ) 

Redemption j 

For  a Widower  or  Widow 

“ Friend  of  All” 

Future  Peace  and  Glory  of  ) 

the  Church f 

Gethsemane 

Gethsemane 

God 

God  in  Nature 

God  is  Love 

God’s  Greatness 

Heavenly  Canaan 

Heaven,  Of 

“ How  Gracious  and  How  ) 

Wise  ” ) 

Humility 

Hymn — On  the  Nativity 

Hymn — To  the  Saviour 

Hymn — When  our  Heads 

Hymn — Drop,  drop,  slow  Tears. 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid 

Hymn — For  anniversary  Mar-  ) 

riage  Days ) 

Hymn — When  the  Angels 

Ily  mn-When  rising  from  the  bed 

Hymn  of  Praise 

Hymn  from  Psalm  CXLVIII... 
Hymn — When  all  thy  Mercies. . 


Watts 737 

Margaret  Mercer. . 754 

F.  Quarles 746 

Vaughan 784 

J.  Montgomery 752 

G.  Herbert 736 

Doddridge 718 

C.  Wesley 756 

Wither 763 

C.  Wesley 740 

Cowper 769 

Joseph  Hart 729 

J.  Montgomery 730 

Derzhavin 792 

Doddridge 718 

Anonymous 786 

Breithaupt 791 

Watts 765 

Jeremy  Taylor 769 

Doddridge 7S6 

J.  Montgomery 748 

Milton 722 

Damascenus 732 

Milman 741 

P.  Fletcher 742 

Sir  W.  Scott 745 

Wither 748 

Nicholas  Breton...  754 

Addison 761 

Tersteegen 772 

Ogilvie 780 

Addison 788 


XIV 


INDEX 


Page 

Hymn — Brother,  thou  art  Gone.  Miiman 761 

In  a clear,  starry  Night Wither 721 

IS  Build  Time  t0  Plant  and  \ KebU 748 

Jesus Newton 737 

“ Jesus,  Lover  of  my  Soul  ” C.  Wesley 738 

my  Strength C.  Wesley 739 


Laborer’s  Noon-day  Hymn Wordsworth. 


745 


II.  King 707 

Cowper 783 


Life 

Light  Shining  out  of  Darkness 

Lines,  on  a celebrated  Picture. ..  C.  Lamb 728 

Little  While H.  Bonar 765 

Living  by  Christ Gerhard 740 

Litany Sir  B.  Grant. 741 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit Herrick, 758 

Lord,  the  Good  Shepherd J.  Montgomery...  772 

Love Watts 755 

Mary Tennyson 755 

“ Mark  the  soft-falling  Snow  ” Doddridge 719 

Messiah Pope 726 

Missionary  Hymn Heber 753 

My  God,  I love  Thee St.  Fran.  Xavier. . 732 

New  Jerusalem Anonymous 766 

Ode — The  Spacious  Firmament. . Addison 719 

Ode — How  are  thy  Servants Addison 782 

Odor,  The G.  Herbert 734 

On  the  Morning  of  Christ’s  Na- 
tivity   

On  a Prayer  Book  sent  to  Mrs. 

M.  E _ 

O yet  we  trust Tennyson 755 

O!  Fear  not  thou  to  die Anonymous 758 

Passion  Sunday Fortunatus 729 

Peace II  Vaughan 769 

Philosopher’s  Devotion . 


Milton 722 

Grashaw 750 


H.  More 716 

Poet's  Hymn  for  Himself Wither 773 

Praise  for  Creation  and  Provi-  ' 

dence _ 

Praise  to  God Mrs.  Barbauld...  771 

Praise,  The Wither 

Prayer,  Living  and  Dying Toplady 

Priest,  The  . 

Psalm  XIII 


Watts 720 

771 
773 
736 

N.  Breton 749 

F.  Davison 774 


Psalm  XYIII T.  Sternhold. 

Psalm  XIX 


774 

Watts. 775 


Psalm  XX 

Psalm  XXIII 

Psalm  XXIII 

Psalm  XXX. 

Psalm  XL VI 

Psalm  LXV 

Psalm  LXVI 

Psalm  LXXII 

Psalm  XCII 

Psalm  C. . 

Psalm  CXVII 

Psalm  CXXX 

Psalm  CXLVIII 

Keign  of  Christ  on  Earth 

Eesignation 

Safe  Stronghold 

Search  after  God 

Sincere  Praise 

Sonnet — In  the  Desert 

Sonnet — The  Prayers  I make  . . . 
Sonnet  — How  orient  is  thy  ) 

Beauty J 

Spirit  Land 

Stranger  and  his  Friend 

.St.  Peter's  Day 

Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars  praise  ye  | 

the  Lord J 

They  are  all  gone 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  Grave 

“ Thou,  God,  seest  Me  ” 

Thou,  God,  unsearchable 

Time  past,  Time  passing,  Time  | 

to  come ) 

To  keep  a true  Lent 

True  use  of  Music 

Twelfth  Day,  or  the  Epiphany. . . 

Universal  Prayer. 

Valediction 

Veni,  Creator 

Walking  -with  God 

Watchman’s  Keport 

Weeping  Mary 

What  is  Prayer  ? 

“ When  I can  read  my  Title  clear  ” 
Wilderness  Transformed 


Pag* 


C.  Wesley 775 

F.  Davison., 776 

Merrick 776 

Davison 776 

Watts 777 

Watts 778 

Sandys 778 

Watts 779 

Sandys 779 

Tate  and  Brady..  779 

Watts 780 

P.  Fletcher 780 

Sandys 781 

J.  Montgomery...  728 

Chatterton 786 

Luther 783 

T.  Hey  wood 7S4 

Watts 721 

Anonymous 742 

Michael  Angelo..  772 

F.  Quarles 735 

Jones  Very 716 

J.  Montgomery . . . 733 

Keble 744 

Watts 720 

H.  Vaughan 764 

Heber 761 

J.  Montgomery. . . 789 
C.  Wesley 791 

J.  Montgomery...  791 

Herrick 746 

C.  Wesley 751 

Wither 727 

Pope 7S8 

Bichard  Baxter..  759 

St.  Ambrose 771 

Cowper 785 

J.  Bowring 738 

J.  Newton 731 

J.  Montgomery...  753 

Watts 769 

Doddridge 77G 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


l 


Page 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH, 

Born  in  Wiltshire,  Eng.,  May  6, 1672 ; died  in  Lon.,  June  17, 1719. 


Ode — The  Spacious  Firmament 719 

Hymn — When  Rising  from  the  Bed 761 

Ode — How  are  thy  Servants 782 

Hymn— When  all  thy  Mercies 783 

AKENSIDE,  MARK. 

Born  atNewcastle-upon-Tyne,  Nov.  9,  1721 ; d.  June  23,  1770. 

On  a Sermon  against  Glory 395 

ALDRICH,  JAMES. 

Born  in  Orange  Co.,  N.  Y.,  July  10, 1810. 

A Death-bed 501 

ALLINGHAM,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Ireland  ; lives  at  Bullyshnnnon  ; published  “The  Music 
Master,  and  Day  and  Night  Songs.”  London,  1855. 

Lovely  Mary  Donnelly 270 

The  Fairies 544 

ALLSTON,  WASHINGTON. 

Bom  in  S.  C.,  Nov.  5,  1779 ; d.  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  July  9, 1843. 

Boyhood. 156 

Rosalie 280 


AMBROSE,  ST.  (Latin.) 

Born  at  Treves,  a.d.,  340;  died  at  Milan,  April  3,  397. 

Yeni  Creator.  {Dry den' 8 Paraphrase.) 771 

ANACREON.  (Greek.) 

Born  at  Teos,  Greece  ; died  there  476  b.  c. 

Spring.  {Moore's  translation.) 13 

On  the  Grasshopper.  ( Cowper's  translation.)  70 
The  Grasshopper.  {Cowley's  translation.). . . 70 

Drinking.  {Cowley's  translation.) 81 

The  Portrait.  {Pay's  translation.). 279 

Cheat  of  Cupid.  {Per rick's  translation.) 287 

ANGELO,  MICHAEL.  (Italian.) 

Burn  in  Tuscany,  March  6, 1474  ; died  in  Home  Feb.  17,  1563. 

Sonnet.  {P.  Coleridge's  translation.') 247 

Sonnet.  {P.  Coleridge's  translation.) 261 

Sonnet.  {S.  Wordsworth's  translation.) 772 

ANSTER,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Ireland  about  1795  ; is  Professor  of  Civil  Law  in  Trinity 
College,  Dublin. 

The  Fairy  Child 130 

ANTIPATER  OF  SIDON.  (Greek.) 

Lived  in  Greece  about  100  B.  c. 

On  Anacreon.  {T.  Moore's  translation.) 623 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN. 

Son  of  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby;  brother  of  Matthew  Arnold. 

Almond  Blossom 18 

Woman’s  Voice 614 


AYTOUN,  WILLIAM  E. 

Born  in  Fifeshire,  Scotland,  in  1813.  Editor  of  “ Blackwood.’ 
Massacre  of  the  Macpherson 


Page 

419 


BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 

Bom  in  Lanarkshire,  Scotland,  in  1762;  died  at  Hampstead, 
near  London,  Feb.  23,  1851. 

The  Black  Cock 30 


BARBAULD,  ANNA  L.ETITIA. 

Born  in  Leicestershire,  Eng.,  June  20,  1743;  died  near  London, 


March  9,  1825. 

Death  of  the  Virtuous 710 

“ Come  unto  Me.” 737 

Praise  to  God 771 

BARNARD,  LADY  ANN. 

Born  in  Scotland,  Dec.  8,  1750;  died  May  8,  1825. 

Auld  Robin  Gray 312 

BARNFIELD,  RICHARD. 

Born  in  Staffordshire,  Eng.,  in  1574 ; died  about  1606. 

Address  to  the  Nightingale 53 

BARTON,  BERNARD. 

Born  near  London,  Jan.  31,  1784  ; died  Feb.  19,  1849. 

Not  ours  the  Vows 336 

There  be  Those 687 


BAXTER,  RICHARD. 

Born  in  Shropshire,  Eng.,  Nov.  1615  ; died  Dec.  8, 1691. 

Valediction 759 


BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYNES. 

Bern  in  Bath,  Eng.,  in  1797  ; died  in  1839, 

0 1 Where  do  Fairies  hide  their  Heads  ? 536 


BEATTIE,  JAMES. 

Born  in  Kincardineshire,  Scot.,  Oct.  20,  1735  ; died  Aug.  18, 1803. 

The  Hermit 700 


BEAUMONT  and  FLETCHER. 

Were  connected  as  writers  in  London  from  about  1605  to  1615. 
Francis  Beaumont,  b.  in  Leicestershire  in  1586  ; d.  March  9, 1616 ; 
John  Fletcher,  b.  in  Northamptonshire  in  1576  ; d.  in  Lon.  in  1625. 


Spring 

To  Pau 

Folding  of  the  Flocks 

Speak,  Love 

Beauty  Clear  and  Fair 

Hear,  Ye  Ladies 

Hence  all  you  Vain  Delights. 


16 

67 

103 

250 

250 

250 

662 


BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL. 

Bom  near  Bristol,  Eng.,  in  1802  ; died  in  Germany  in  1849. 


Love’s  Last  Message 828 

Dirge 509 

Bridal  Song  and  Dirge 510 


ARNOLD,  MATTHEW. 

B .m  at  Lab-ham,  Eng.,  Dec.  24,  1822;  elected  Professor  of 
Poetry  at  Oxford  in  1857. 

Philomela 55 

Excuse 321 

Indifference 321 

Sohrab  and  Rustum 458 


BELLMAN,  C.  M.  (Swedish.) 

Born  at  Stockholm,  Sweden,  in  1741 ; died  in  1795. 

Up,  Amaryllis.  (M.  Jlowitt's  translation.)...  21 
BENNETT,  HENRY. 

Born  in  Cork,  Ireland,  about  1785. 

St.  Patrick  was  a Gentleman 434 


XVI 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Page 

BENNETT,  WILLIAM  C. 

Lives  iu  London. 


Invocation  to  Eain  in  Summer. 7T 

To  a Cricket 110 

Baby  May 123 

Baby’s  Shoes 169 


BEKANGER,  PIERRE  JEAN  DE.  (Fbench.) 

Bom  in  Paris,  Aug.  19,  1180 ; died  July  16,  1857. 

Little  Brown  Man.  ( Anonymous  translation.)  424 


BETHUNE,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Fii'eshire,  Scotland,  in  1812 ; died  Sept.  1,  1839. 

Hymn  of  the  Church-yard 708 

BLACKBURN,  THOMAS. 

Author  of  “ Hymns  and  Poems  for  the  Sick  and  Suffering.” 

Easter  Hymn 732 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  London,  Nov.  28,  1757  ; died  Aug.  12,  1828. 

The  Tiger 74 

Chimney  Sweeper 162 

The  Little  Black  Boy 162 

The  Garden  of  Love 688 

Another’s  Sorrow 785 

BLANCHARD,  LAMAN. 

Bom  at  Great  Yarmouth,  Eng.,  May  15, 1803 ; diedFeb.  5, 1845. 

Mother’s  Hope 136 

BONAE,  HORATIUS. 

Bom  in  Scotland  about  1810.  Min.  of  the  Free  Church  in  Kelso. 

A Little  While 765 

All  W ell 770 

BOURNE,  VINCENT. 

An  usher  in  Westminster  School ; bom  about  1695 ; died  Dec. 

2,  1747. 

The  Fly 70 

BOWLES,  WILLIAM  LISLE. 

Bom  in  Northamptonshire,  Sept.  24, 1762;  died  April  7,  1850. 

Come  to  these  Scenes  of  Peace 60 

The  Greenwood 60 

On  the  Funeral  of  Charles  the  First 513 


BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 


Bora  in  England  about  1809. 

The  Child  and  Watcher 126 

Bertha  in  the  Lane 313 

Cowper’s  Grave 630 

The  Sleep 701 

BROWNING,  ROBERT. 

Bom  near  London  in  1812. 

Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin 144 

One  Way  of  Love 293 

Misconceptions 293 

In  a Year 298 

Statue  and  Bust 316 

Evelyn  Hope 324 

Give  a Rouse 363 

How  they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent 

to  Aix 376 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 385 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 428 

The  Lost  Leader 513 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CULLEN. 

Bom  at  Cummington,  Mass.,  Nov.  3,  1794. 

To  a Waterfowl 58 

The  Fringed  Gentian 94 

Death  of  the  Flowers 96 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies 97 

The  Evening  Wind 104 

Burial  of  Love 328 

Song  of  Marion’s  Men 3S0 

O!  Mother  of  a Mighty  Race 382 

The  Battle-field 3S3 

The  Hunter's  Vision 4S9 

The  Crowded  Street 658 

Thanatopsis 709 

BURBIDGE,  THOMAS. 

Bom  in  England;  published  “Poems,  Longer  and  Shorter.” 
Lond.  1838. 

Mother’s  Love 13T 

If  I desire  with  Pleasant  Songs 288 

BURLEIGH,  GEORGE  S. 

Bom  at  Plainfield,  Conn.,  March  26,  1821. 

Mother  Margery 621 


BOWRING,  JOHN. 

Bom  at  Exeter,  Eng.,  Oct.  27,  1792. 

Watchman’s  Report 738 

BRAINARD,  JOHN  G.  C. 

Born  at  New  London,  Conn.,  Oct.  21,  1796;  died  Sept.  26,  1828. 

Epithalamium 336 


BREITHAUPT,  JOACHIM  JUSTUS. 

Bom  in  Hanover  in  1658 ; died  March  16,  1132. 


God’s  Greatness.  ( John  Wesley's  translation.)  791 
j BRETON,  NICHOLAS. 

Bom  in  England  in  1555 ; died  in  1624. 

Phillida  and  Corydon 247 

A Sweet  Pastoral 654 

Priest 749 

Hymn 754 

BRISTOL,  LORD.  (Geobge  Digby.) 

Born  in  Madrid  in  1612 ; died  at  Chelsea,  March  20, 1616. 

Song '. 30 

BROOKS,  MARIA. 

Bora  at  Medford,  Mass.,  about  1195 ; died  in  Cuba,  Nov.  11, 1845. 

Song 282 

BROWN,  FRANCES. 

Bom  in  Ireland,  June  16,  1818. 

Losses 676 

O ! the  Pleasant  Days  of  Old 678 

Is  it  Come? 684 

If  that  were  True 6S5 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM. 

Bora  in  Devonshire  in  1590  ; died  in  1645. 

Shall  I tell? 250 

Welcome,  Welcome 259 

The  Siren’s  Song 546 


BURNS,  ROBERT. 

Born  near  Ayr,  Scotland,  Jan.  25,  1759 ; died  July  21,  1796. 


A Mountain  Daisy SS 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands 98 

Auld  Lang  Syne 192 

Ca’  the  Yowes  to  the  Knowes 263 

Here’s  a Health  to  Ane 263 

Farewell  to  NanGy 264 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  Wind  can  Blaw 264 

Lass  of  Ballochmyle 265 

Red,  Red  Rose 265 

Bonnie  Leslie 268 

Highland  Mary 324 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 825 

My  Wife’s  a VTinsome  Wee  Thing 337 

John  Anderson 340 

Blissful  Day 340 

Bannock-Burn 360 

Here's  a Health  to  them  that’s  Awa’ 870 

Kenmure's  on  and  Awa’ 870 

Tam  O’Shanter 420 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson 504 

The  Vision 632 

Honest  Poverty 6S3 

The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night 689 

BURTON,  ROBERT. 

Bora  at  Lindley,  Eng.,  in  1576 ; died  in  1639. 

Abstract  of  Melancholy 661 

BUTLER,  WILLIAM  ALLEN. 

Bom  in  Albany,  N.  Y.,  in  1825. 

Uhland 640 

BYRD,  WILLIAM. 

An  English  musical  composer — lived  about  1600. 

Song 651 

My  minde  to  Me  a Kingdom  is 652 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


XVII 


Page  | 


BYRON,  LORD. 

Born  in  L<  nion,  Jan.  22,  1788  ; died  April  19,  1824. 

To  Thomas  Moore 188 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  Part 261 

Oirl  of  Cadiz 262 

Stanzas  for  Music 263 

Dreams 294 

When  we  two  Parted 297 

Destruction  of  Sennacherib 350 

Song  of  the  Greek  Poet 390 

The  Prisoner  of  Chillon 474 

O!  Snatched  away  in  Beauty’s  Bloom 506 

She  Walks  in  Beauty 617 

CALLISTRATUS.  (Greek.) 

Lived  in  Greece  about  500  b.  c. 

Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton.  ( Lord  Denman's 
translation.) 351 


COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR. 

Born  in  Devonshire,  Eng.,  Oct.  21,  1772  ; died  July  25,  1834. 


The  Nightingale 55 

Frost  at  Midnight 113 

Hymn,  before  Sunrise 119 

The  Child  in  the  Wilderness 127 

Love 232 

Cologne 422 

Devil’s  Thoughts 422 

Song — Hear  Sweet  Spirit 546 

Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner 569 

Kubla  Khan 578 

Dejection:  anOde 664 

The  good  great  Man 676 

COLLINS,  ANN. 

Lived  in  England  about  1650. 

Winter  being  Over 653 


CAMOENS,  LUIS  DE.  (Portuguese.) 

Born  in  Lisbon  about  1524;  died  in  1579. 

Canzonet.  ( Boscoe's  translation.) 45 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Glasgow,  July  27,  1777  ; d.  at  Boulogne,  June  15,  1844. 

To  the  Evening  Star 105 

Song. 284 

Lochiel's  Warning 371 

Hohenlinden 385 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 386 

Battle  of  the  Baltic 3S7 

Lord  Ullin’s  Daughter 479 

The  Soldier’s  Dream 596 

Hallowed  Ground 692 

CANNING,  GEORGE. 

Bom  in  London,  April  11,  1770  ; died  at  Chiswick,  Aug.  8, 1827. 

Friend  of  Humanity,  and  the  Knife-Grinder..  423 
Song  of  an  Imprisoned  Student 424 

CAREW,  THOMAS. 

Bom  in  Devonshire,  England,  in  1589 ; died  in  1639. 

The  Airs  of  Spring 10 

Song. 256 

Disdain  Returned 256 

CHALKHILL,  JOHN. 

A friend  of  izaak  Walton  ; lived  in  the  17th  century. 

The  Angler 21 

CHANNING,  WILLIAM  ELLERY,  Jr. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  Nov.  26,  1818. 

Death 704 

CHATTERTON,  THOMAS. 

Born  at  Bristol,  England,  Nov.  20,  1752 ; killed  himself,  Aug. 

25,  1770. 

The  Resignation 786 

CHAUCER,  GEOFFREY. 

Bom  in  London  in  1328;  died  Oct.  25,  1400. 

Flower  and  the  Leaf 3 

The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale 253 

CLARE,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Northamptonshire,  England,  July  13,  1793. 

July 59 

CLARK,  GEORGE  H. 

Lives  at  Hartford,  Conn. 

The  Rail 441 

CLAUDIUS,  MATTHIAS.  (German.) 

Bom  near  Lubeek,  Germany,  in  1743;  died  in  1815. 

Night  Song.  (C.  T.  Brooks'  translation.) 108 

CLOUGH,  ARTHUR  HUGH. 

Natura  Naturans 286 

No  More 673 

Qua  Cursum  Yentus 673 

COLERIDGE,  HARTLEY. 

Born  near  Bristol,  Eng.,  Sept.  19,  1796  ; died  Jan.  19,  1849. 

Song — The  Lark 20 

November 101 


COLLINS,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  nt  Chichester,  England,  Dec.  25,  1720 ; died  in  1756. 


Ode  to  Evening 105 

Ode— How  Sleep  the  Brave 375 

Dirge  in  Cymbeline 509 

The  Passions 611 

COLMAN,  GEORGE,  “ The  Younger.” 

Bom  in  London,  Oct.  21,  1762 ; died  Oct.  26,  1836. 

Sir  Marmaduke 666 

COOKE,  PHILIP  PENDLETON. 

Born  at  Martinsburg,  Va.,  Oct.  26, 1816;  died  Jan.  20,  1850. 

Florence  Yane 322 

CORBETT,  RICHARD. 

Born  in  Surrey,  England,  in  1582 ; died  in  1635. 

The  Fairies’  Farewell 544 

CORNWALL,  BARRY.  (B.  W.  Procter.) 

Born  in  Wiltshire,  England,  about  1798. 

The  Snow-Drop 12 

Song  of  the  Wood  Nymphs 67 

The  Blood  Horse 77 

The  Sea 84 

The  Stormy  Petrel 84 

The  Sea — In  Calm 87 

The  Hunter’s  Song 98 

The  Owls 109 

A Song  for  the  Seasons 117 

Song — Love  me  if  I Live 272 

Poet’s  Song  to  his  Wife 339 

Softly  Woo  away  her  Breath 489 

The  Mother’s  Last  Song - 497 

Peace ! What  do  Tears  Avail  ? 501 

Bridal  Dirge 511 

Hermione 617 

Poet’s  Thought 642 

Petition  to  Time 671 

King  Death 703 

Life 705 

Sit  down,  Sad  Soul 905 

COTTON,  CHARLES. 

Born  in  Derbyshire,  England,  in  1630;  died  in  1687. 

The  Retirement 64 

COTTON,  NATHANIEL. 

Born  at  St.  Albans,  England,  in  1721 ; died  in  1788. 

The  Fireside 254 

COWLEY,  ABRAHAM. 

Born  in  London  in  1618 ; died  July  28,  1667. 

The  Garden 61 

COWPER,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Hertfordshire,  Eng.,  Nov.  15, 1731  ; died  April  25,  1800. 

The  Cricket 110 

Boadicea 352 

Diverting  History  of  John  Gilpin 416 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George 480 

Verses,  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alex.  Selkirk  591 

On  the  Receipt  of  my  Mother’s  Picture 599 

Human  Frailty. 675 

Future  Peace  and  Glory  of  the  Church 769 

Light  shining  out  of  Darkness 788 

Walking  with  God 785 


xvm 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Page 


CEANCH,  CHRISTOPHER  PEAESE. 

Bum  iu  Alexandria,  D.  C.,  March  8, 1813. 

Stanzas — Thought  is  Deeper 656 

CRASHAW,  EICHAED. 

Bom  in  Cambridgeshire,  Eng.,  about  1600 ; died  in  1650. 

Song — To  thy  Lover 255 

Temperance,  or  the  Cheap  Physician 660 

On  a Prayer-Book. 750 

CRAWFORD,  HES.  J. 

An  Irish  lady ; wrote  for  the  “ London  New  Monthly.” 

We  parted  in  Silence 293 

CEOLT,  GEORGE. 

Bora  in  Dublin  about  1785. 

Leonidas 352 

Pericles  and  Aspasia 352 

Dirge 762 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN. 

Bom  at  Blackwood,  Scotland,  Dec.  17, 1784 ; died  Dec.  29, 1842. 

A Wet  Sheet  and  a Flowing  Sea 85 

The  Town  Child  and  Country  Child 127 

Thou  hast  Towed  by  thy  Faith,  my  Jeannie. . 266 

Gentle  Hugh  Herries 267 

My  Nannie,  0 267 

Poet’s  Bridal-day  Song 339 

Hame,  Hame,  Hame 374 

The  Sun  rises  bright  in.  France 374 

CUETIS,  GEOEGE  WILLIAM. 

Bum  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  in  1824. 

Egyptian  Serenade 614 

DAMASCENES,  ST.  JOANNES.  (Greek.) 

Born  in  Damascus ; died  about  756. 

Hymn.  (E.  B.  Browning' 8 translation.) 732 

DANA,  EICHAED  HENEY. 

Bom  at  Cambridge,  Mass  , Nov.  15,  1787. 

The  little  Beach-Bird. 87 

DANIEL,  SAMUEL. 

Bora  in  Somersetshire,  Eng.,  in  1562 ; died  Oct.  1619. 

Love  is  a Sickness 247 

DAELEY,  GEOEGE. 

Bom  in  Dublin  in  1785 ; died  in  London  in  1S49. 

Song  of  the  Summer  Winds 81 

Gambols  of  Children 143 

Sylvia 2S0 

Love  Song 280 

The  Queen  of  May 615 

DATIS,  THOMAS. 

Bern  in  Mall  w,  Ireland,  in  1814 ; died  in  Dublin,  Sept.  16, 1845. 

The  Welcome 272 

DAYISON,  FEANCIS. 

Bom  in  Norfolk,  England,  about  1575 ; died  about  1618. 

Psalm  XIII 774 

Psalm  XXIII 776 

Psalm  XXX 776 

DE  YEEE,  AUBEEY. 

Born  in  the  county  of  Limerick,  Ireland,  Dec.  16,  1S14. 

Early  Friendship 179 

Song— Sing  the  old  Song 281 

Sonnet 672 

! DEEZHAYIN,  GAB’L  BOMANO WITCH.  (Russian.) 

Burn  in  Kasan,  Russia,  July  3,  1743;  died  July  6,  1816. 

God.  (J.  Bowring' s translation.) 792 

DIBDIN,  CHAELES. 

Bum  at  Southampton,  England,  in  1745 ; died  in  1814. 

Tom  Bowling 4S4 

DICKENS,  CHARLES. 

Born  at  Portsmouth,  England,  Feb.  7, 1812. 

Ivy  Green 101 

! DIMOND,  WILLIAM. 

A theatrical  manager ; bora  in  Bath,  Eng. ; died  in  Paris,  Oct. 

1837. 

The  Mariner's  Dream 482 


DOBELL,  SYDNEY. 

Bora  at  Peckham  Rye,  England,  in  1824. 

How’s  my  Boy  ? 4S8 

DODDRIDGE,  PHILIP. 

Bom  in  London,  June  26,  1702 ; died  Oct.,  1751. 

“ Mark  the  Soft-falling  Snow  ” 710 

For  New  Year’s  Day 718 

God  in  Nature 718 

Christ’s  Message 727 

Wilderness  Transformed 770 

“ How  Gracious  and  how  Wise  ” 786 

DOMMETT,  ALFRED. 

Bora  in  England  about  1815  ; lives  in  New  Zealand. 

Christmas  Hymn 748 

DOWLAND,  JOHN. 

An  English  musical  composer;  lived  about  1600. 

Sleep 702 

DOWNING,  MAEY. 

Bora  in  Cork,  Ireland,  about  1830. 

Were  I but  His  own  Wife 271 

PEAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN. 

Bom  in  New  York,  Aug.  7,  1795 ; died  Sept.,  1820. 

To  Sarah 337 

American  Flag 3S1 

The  Culprit  Fay 536 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL. 

Bora  in  Warwickshire,  England,  in  1563;  died  in  1631. 

Ballad  of  Agincourt 358 

DRUMMOND,  WILLIAM 

Bom  in  Scotland,  Nov.  13,  1585 ; died  Dec.  1649. 

Song — Phoebus  arise 14 

To  the  Nightingale 53 

To  the  Redbreast. 117 

Sonnet — I know  that  All 247 

Sonnets 654 

Sonnet— Of  Mortal  Glory 707 

Dedication  of  a Church 749 

DEYDEN,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Northamptonshire,  Eng.,  Aug.  9, 1631 ; died  May  1, 1700. 

How  Sweet  it  is  to  Love 256 

Alexander’s  Feast 609 

Music 611 

DUFFERIN,  LADY. 

Formerly  Mrs.  Blackwood  ; grand-daughter  of  R.  B.  Sheridan ; 
sister  of  Mrs.  Norton  ; bom  in  Deland  about  180S. 

Lament  of  the  Irish  Emigrant 495 

DUNBAR,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Scotland  about  1465 ; died  about  1 530. 

All  Earthly  Joy  returns  in  Pain 5S5 

DWIGHT,  JOHN  SULLIYAN. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  May  13,  1813. 

Sweet  is  the  Pleasure 656 

DYER,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Wales  in  1700 ; died  in  1758. 

Grongar  Hill 101 

EASTMAN,  CHAELES  GAMAGE. 

Born  in  Fryeburg,  Me.  June  1, 1816. 

A Snow  Storm 4SS 

Dirge 510 

ELLIOTT,  EBENEZEE. 

Bora  near  Sheffield,  Eng.,  March  17,  1781 ; died  Dec.  1,  1849. 

The  Bramble  Flower 43 

Poet’s  Epitaph 517 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 

Born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1803. 

The  Ehodora 38 

To  the  Humble  Bee 71 

The  Snow  Storm 116 

Threnody 171 

Good-bye 659 

Guy 000 

Each  and  All 0S7 

The  Problem 669 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Xli. 


Page 

FENNER,  C.  G. 

Born  in  Providence,  R.  I.,  Dec.  30,  1822;  died  in  Cincinnati, 


Jan.  4,  1S47. 

Gulf  Weed 87 

FERGUSON,  SAMUEL. 

Born  in  the  north  of  Ireland  about  1805— is  a Barrister  in  Dublin. 

Forging  of  the  Anchor 594 


Page 

HABINGTON,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Worcestershire,  England,  in  1605 ; died  in  1645. 


Castara 252 

Night 698 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE. 

Born  at  Guilford,  Conn.,  in  Aug.  1795. 

Marco  Bozzaris 391 


FIELDS,  JAMES  T. 

Boru  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  about  1815. 

Ballad  of  the  Tempest 164 

Dirge  for  a Young  Girl 510 

FLETCHER,  GILES. 

Born  lu  Kent,  England,  about  1550 ; died  in  1610. 

Panglory's  Wooing  Song 252 

FLETCHER,  PHINEAS. 

Bom  in  Loudon  in  1584 ; died  about  1650. 

Hymn — Drop,  Drop,  Slow  Tears 742 

Psalm  cxxx 780 


FORTUNATUS,  YENANTIUS.  (Latin.) 

Saint  of  the  Latin  Church;  bom  near  Venice  in  530;  died 
about  600. 

Passion  Sunday.  {Anonymous  translation.) . . 729 
FREILIGRATH,  FERDINAND.  (German.) 

Bora  at  Detmold,  Germany,  June  17,  1810. 

The  Lion’s  Ride.  {Anonymous  translation.) . 74 


FRENEAU,  PHILIP. 

Bom  in  New  York,  Jan.  13,  1752 ; died  Dec.  18,  1832. 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle 43 

FULCHER,  GEORGE  WILLIAMS. 

Died  in  Sudbury,  England,  in  1855. 

Dying  Child 166 

GAY,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Devonshire,  England,  in  1688  ; died  Dec.  11,  1732. 

Black-Eyed  Susan 218 

GERHARD,  PAUL.  (German.) 

Bora  in  Saxony  in  1606  ; died  June  7,  1676. 


Living  by  Christ.  {J.  Wesley's  translation.)..  740 


GILMAN,  CAROLINE. 

Born  in  Boston,  Mass.,  in  1794. 

Annie  in  the  Grave-yard 161 

GLAZIER,  W.  B. 

Lives  in  Gardiner,  Me. 

Cape  Cottage  at  Sunset 183 


HAMILTON,  WILLIAM. 

Born  at  Bangour,  Scotland,  in  1704 ; died  in  1754. 

Braes  of  Yarrow 450 

HART,  JOSEPH. 

An  English  Dissenting  Clergyman  ; lived  in  London  in  1759. 

Gethsemane 729 

HARTE,  WALTER. 

Bom  in  1700 ; died  in  Wales  in  1774, 

Soliloquy 71 

HEBER,  REGINALD. 

Bom  in  Cheshire,  England,  April  21,  1783 ; died  April  3,  1826. 

If  thou  wert  by  my  Side 337 

Epiphany 725 

Missionary  Hymn 753 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  Grave 761 


HEINE,  HEINRICH.  (German.) 

Bern  at  Dusseldorf,  Germany,  Jan.  1,  1800;  died  in  1856. 

“ Calm  is  the  Night.”  {Leland's  translation.)  518 


The  Lorelei.  {C.  P.  Cranch's  translation.). . . 547 

The  Water  Fay.  {Leland's  translation.) 547 

The  Fisher’s  Cottage.  {Leland's  translation.)  590 

HEMANS,  FELICIA. 

Born  in  Liverpool,  England,  Sept.  25,  1794  ; died  May  18,  1835. 

Willow  Song 69 

The  Wandering  Wind 82 

The  Adopted  Child 157 

Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 378 

Casabianca 389 

Dirge. 511 

HERBERT,  GEORGE. 

Born  in  Wales,  April  3,  1593  ; died  in  Feb.  1632. 

Man 694 

Virtue 699 

Easter 731 

The  Call 733 

The  Odor 734 

Complaining 735 

The  Flower 736 


GLEN,  WILLIAM. 

A native  of  Glasgow,  died  about  1824. 

Wae’s  Me  for  Prince  Charlie 373 

GOETHE,  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  YON.  (German.) 

Born  at  Franklort-on-the-Mainr  Aug.  29, 1749 ; died  at  Weimar, 
in  1832. 

The  Minstrel.  {J.  C.  Mangan's  translation.)  642 

GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 

Born  in  the  county  of  Longford,  Ireland,  Nov.  29,  1728;  died 
April  4,  1774. 


The  Hermit 216 

The  Deserted  Village 600 

GRANT,  SIR  ROBERT. 

Born  in  Scotland  in  1785 ; died  July  9,  1838. 

Liturgy 741 

GRAY,  THOMAS. 

B(  rn  in  London,  Dec.  20, 1746  ; died  July  30,  1771. 

Elegy  written  in  a Country  Church-yard 710 

GREENE,  ROBERT. 

Born  at  Norwich,  England,  abouiJ560  ; died  Sept.  5,  1592. 

Philomela’s  Ode TvTT. 256 

Song — Sweet  are  the  Thoughts 650 

GREGORY  THE  GREAT,  ST.  (Latin.) 

Burn  iu  Rome  about  540  ; died  604. 

Darkness  is  Thinning.  {J.  M.  Neale's  transla- 
tion.)  715 


HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

Born  in  London  in  1591 ; date  of  death  unknown. 

To  Violets 36 

To  Primroses 37 

To  Blossoms 37 

To  Daffodils 37 

To  Meadows 94 

Mrs.  Eliz.  Wheeler 251 

Night  Piece 253 

Gathering  Rose-buds 330 

The  Hag 405 

Dirge  of  Jephthah’s  Daughter 508 

Delight  in  Disorder 615 

Upon  Julia’s  Recovery 617 

To  Peri  11a 667 

The  White  Island 679 

To  keep  a true  Lent 746 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit 758 

HEY  WOOD,  THOMAS. 

Lived  in  England,  under  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Charles  I. 

Song — The  Lark 20 

Search  after  God 784 

HILL,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  New  Brunswick,  N.  J.,  Jan.  7, 1818. 

The  Bobolink 23 


HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO. 

Born  in  New  York  in  1806. 

Sparkling  and  Bright 


184 


XX 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 

HOGG,  JAMES. 

ii  tii  hi  Kitrick,  Scotland,  Jan.  25,  1172;  died  Nov.  21, 1S35. 

The  Lark 20 

The  Moon  was  a Waning 4S4 

Kilraeny 53* 

LMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

..  II  »'  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Aug.  29,  1809. 

The  Old  Constitution 3S3 

The  Steamboat 592 

The  Last  Leaf. 669 

HOLTY.  LUDWIG.  (German.) 

Born  near  Hanover,  Germany,  Iter.  •>  , 1"43;  died  Dec.  1,1176. 

Winter  Song.  ((?.  T.  B oake  n translation.)..  116 
HOOD,  THOMAS. 

Bom  in  London  in  1798  ; died  May  3,  1845. 


Flowers 45 

Autumn 100 

To  a Child  embracing  his  Mother 130 

To  my  Daughter 139 

I Remember,  I Remember 159 

Fair  Ines 268 

Ruth 275 

Serenade 276 

Ballad— Not  in  Winter 278 

Ballad— Sigh  on,  Sad  Heart 293 

Faithless  Nelly  Gray 429 

Faithless  Sally  Brown 429 

A Table  of  Errata 430 

Lady  at  Sea 432 

Dream  of  Eugene  Aram 485 

Bridge  of  Sighs 496 

Song  of  the  Shirt 497 

The  Death-bed 500 

The  Water  Lady 547 

Song — A Lake  and  a Fairy  Boat 548 

Song — O,  Lady,  Leave 619 

Ode  to  Melancholy 662 

HORACE.  (Latin.) 

Born  in  Apulia,  Dec.  8,  B.  c.  65 ; died  Nov.  27,  b.  c.  8. 

To  Thaliarchus.  {Dry den  8 translation.) 259 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD. 

Born  in  New  York  about  1820. 

The  Dead  Christ 742 

HOWITT,  MARY. 

Bom  at  Uttoxeter,  England,  about  1800. 

Little  Streams 33 

Broom  Flower....... 42 

Summer  Woods 68 

Cornfields 95 

Little  Children 140 

Fairies  of  Caldon  Low 535 

HOWITT,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Derbyshire,  England  in  1795. 

Departure  of  the  Swallow 110 


HOYT,  RALPH. 

Bom  in  New  York  about  1812. 


INGRAM,  JOHN  KELLS. 

Bom  in  Ireland  about  1820 ; is  a Fellow  of  Trin.  Coll.,  Dublin. 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 393 

JONES,  ERNEST. 

A leading  Chartist ; lives  iu  England. 

Moonrise 1117 


JONES,  SIR  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  London,  Sept.  28, 1746  ; died  April  27,  1794. 

Ode — What  Constitutes  a State 

JONSON,  BEN. 

Bom  in  London,  Jane  11,  1574;  died  Aug.  16,  1637. 

To  Cynthia 

Triumph  of  Charis * ’ ’ ’ ‘ ‘ ‘ 

Discourse  with  Cupid ' ’ " ' 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H 

Song— The  Fairy  Beam  upon  You 

Song 

Ode — To  Himself. * " ' 

KEATS,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  London  in  1796 ; died  Feb.  24,  1821. 

Nature  and  the  Poets. 

Ode  to  a Nightingale 

Hymn  to  Pan 

On  the  Grasshopper  and  Cricket ! ' 

To  Autumn 

Fancy 

Eve  of  St.  Agnes * " " ' 

Fairy  Song. * 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 

Lines  on  the  Mermaid  Tavern 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer 

Ode — Bards  of  Passion 

Ode  on  a Grecian  Urn ” " ' 

Robin  Hood 


394 


107 

248 

249 
512 
545 
615 
625 


49 

54 

66 

71 

99 

111 

220 

529 

530 
624 
639 
641 
645 
677 


KEBLE,  JOHN. 

Vicar  of  Hursley,  near  Winchester,  England  ; bom  about  1800. 


April 12 

The  Elder  Scripture ’ 718 

St.  Peter’s  Day ’ 744 

Is  This  a Time  to  Plant  and  Build  ? 74S 

KEMBLE,  FRANCES  ANNE. 

Bom  in  London  about  1811. 

Absence 283 


KENYON,  JOHN. 


Died  in  London  in  1857 

Champagne  Rose 185 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT. 

Bom  about  1790 ; died  at  Baltimore,  Jan.  11, 1843. 

Star-spangled  Banner 330 

KING,  HENRY. 

Biahop  of  Chichester,  England,  bom  in  1591 ; died  in  1669. 

Life 707 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES. 

Bom  in  Devonshire,  England,  June  12,  1819. 

Song— O,  Mary,  Go  and  Call  the  Cattle  Home.  457 
The  Fishermen 473 


Old. 667 

HUGO,  VICTOR.  (French.) 

Bom  at  Besan^on,  France,  Feb.  26,  1802. 

TheDjinns.  ( O'Sullivan's  translation.) 581 

HUNT,  LEIGH. 

Bom  in  Middlesex,  England,  Oct.  19,  1784. 

Chorus  of  Flowers 46 

Grasshopper  and  Cricket 71 

To  J.  II. — Four  years  old 131 

To  a Child  during  Sickness 132 

The  Nun 284 

Jenny  kissed  Me 292 

Abou  Ben  Adhem 591 

HUNTER,  ANNE. 

Bom  in  Scotland  in  1742  ; died  in  1821. 

Indian  Death-song 877 

HYSLOP,  JAMES. 

Bom  in  Scotland,  July,  1798 ; died  Dec.  4,  1827. 

Cameronian’s  Dream 367 


KORNER,  KARL  THEODOR.  (German.) 

Bom  in  Dresden,  Sept.  23,  1791  ; died  Aug.  26, 1813. 

Korner’s  Sword  Song.  {Charley's  translation.)  3S4 
LAMB,  CHARLES. 

Bom  in  London,  Feb.  18,  1775;  died  Dec.  27, 1S34. 


The  Christening. 124 

The  Gipsey’s  Malison ISO 

Childhood 159 

Old  Familiar  Faces 3 S3 

Farewell  to  Tobacco 426 

Hypochondriacus 426 

Hester 501 

Lines  on  a Celebrated  Picture 728 

LAMB,  MARY. 

Bom  in  London  in  1765 ; died  May  20,  1847. 

Choosing  a Name 124 

LANDOR,  WALTER  SAVAGE. 

Bom  in  Warwickshire,  England,  in  1775. 

The  Brier 44 

Children 138 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


xxi 


Ptige 


Maid’s  Lament 292 

Iphigenia  and  Agamemnon 470 

To  Macaulay 641 

One  Gray  Hair 667 

LEONIDAS,  OF  ALEXANDRIA.  (Greek.) 

Born  in  the  year  59 ; died  in  129. 

On  the  Picture  of  an  Infant.  (. Rogers's  trans- 
lation^)  125 

LOGAN,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Scotland  in  1748 ; died  in  Dec.  1788. 

To  the  Cuckoo 24 

Song — Yarrow  Stream 452 

Heavenly  Wisdom 694 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH. 

Born  in  Portland,  Me.,  Feb.  27,  1807. 

Flowers 47 

Rain  in  Summer 79 

Twilight 85 

Seaweed 86 

Woods  in  Winter 115 

Afternoon  in  February 117 

The  Open  Window 168 

The  Fire  of  Driftwood 182 

Excelsior 396 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus 481 

Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports 515 

The  Village  Blacksmith 592 

The  Arsenal  at  Springfield 597 

The  Light  of  Stars 698 

The  Slave  Singing  at  Midnight 701 

Psalm  of  Life 706 

The  Footsteps  of  Angels 706 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD. 

Born  in  Kent,  England,  in  1618;  died  in  1658. 

To  Lucasta 253 

To  Althea,  from  Prison 254 

To  Lucasta 254 

Song— Strive  not,  Vain  Lover 288 

Orpheus  to  the  Beasts 305 

LOVER,  SAMUEL. 

Born  in  Dublin  in  1797. 

The  Angel’s  Whisper : 126 

Rory  O’More 289 

Molly  Carew 290 

Widow  Machree 291 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 

Born  at  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Feb.  22, 1819. 

The  Fountain 32 

To  the  Dandelion 44 

The  Birch  Tree 67 

Summer  Storm 77 

To  a Pine  Tree 114 

She  Came  and  Went 168 

My  Love 277 

What  Mr.  Robinson  Thinks 441 

Rhcecus 566 

Hebe 616 

LOWELL,  MARIA  WHITE. 

Born  at  Watertown,  Mass.,  July  8,  1821 ; died  Oct.  27,  1853. 

Morning-Glory 168 


LUTHER,  MARTIN.  (German.) 

Born  at  Eisleben,  Saxony,  Nov.  10, 1483  ; died  Feb.  18,  1546. 

A Safe  Stronghold.  (T.  Carlyle's  translation.)  783 
LYLY,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Kent,  Eng'nnd,  about  1554 ; died  about  1600. 


Cupid  and  Campaspe 249 

LYTTON,  ROBERT  BULWER, 

Only  son  of  Sir  E.  liulwer  Lytton,  published  “ Clytemnestrn 
and  other  Poems”  in  1854,  under  the  name  of  Owen  Meredith. 

Changes 320 

MACAULAY,  THOMAS  BABINGTON. 

Bom  at  Rothley  Temple,  England,  in  1800. 

Horatius 843 

Ivry 860 

Naseby 862 

McCarthy,  dennis  Florence. 

Bom  in  Cork,  Ireland,  about  1810. 

Summer  Longings 16 

Irish  Melody 271 


MACKAY,  CHARLES. 

Born  at  Perth,  Scotland,  in  1812. 

Child  and  the  Mourners 161 

Under  the  Holly  Bough 195 

What  Might  be  Done 196 

The  Good  Time  Coming. 684 

MACLEAN,  L.  E.  (Miss  Landon.) 

Bora  at  Chelsea,  Eng.,  in  1802 ; died  in  Africa,  Oct.  16, 1838. 

The  Shepherd  Boy 142 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood 143 

Night  at  Sea 192 

Awakening  of  Endymion 281 

McMASTER,  GUY  HUMPHREY. 

Born  at  Bath,  Steuben  County,  N.  Y.,  in  1829. 

Carmen  Bellicosum 379 

MACNIEL,  HECTOR. 

Born  at  Rosebank,  Scotland,  Oct.  22, 1746  ; died  March  15, 1818. 

Mary  of  Castle  Cary 229 

MAGINN,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Cork,  Ireland,  about  1793 ; died  Aug.  20,  1842. 

St.  Patrick,  of  Ireland,  my  Dear 435 

The  Irishman 436 

MALLETT,  DAVID. 

Born  in  Scotland  about  1700  ; died  April  21,  1765. 

A Funeral  Hymn 505 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER. 

Born  at  Canterbury,  England,  Feb.  26,  1564 ; d.  June  16,  1593. 

Milk-Maid’s  Song. 258 

MARVELL,  ANDREW. 

Bora  at  Kingston-upon-Hull,  England,  Nov.  15,  1620;  died 
Aug.  16,  1678. 

A Drop  of  Dew 14 

The  Garden 60 

The  Lover  to  the  Glow-worms 251 

Horatian  Ode 363 

The  Nymph  Complaining 494 

Emigrants  in  Bermudas 745 

MASSEY,  GERALD. 

Born  near  Tring,  England,  in  May,  1828. 

The  Men  of  Forty-eight 393 

MENDOZA,  LOPE  DE.  (Spanish.) 

Born  in  Corrion  de  los  Condes,  Spain,  Aug.  19,  1398;  died 
March  26,  1458. 

Serrana.  (7!  Hoscoe's  translation.) 229 

MERCER,  MARGARET. 

Born  at  Annapolis,  Md.,  in  1791 ; d.  at  Belmont.  Va.,  Sept. 

19,  1847. 

Exhortation  to  Prayer 754 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE. 

Lives  at  Weybridge,  England ; published  a volume  of  Poems 
in  1851. 

Love  in  the  Valley 236 

MERRICK,  JAMES. 

Bom  in  England  in  1720:  died  in  1769. 

Psalm  XXIII 776 

MESSINGER,  ROBERT  HINCKLEY. 

Born  in  Boston  about  1807. 

Give  me  the  Old 184 

MILLER,  THOMAS. 

Bora  in  Gainsborough,  England,  Aug.  31, 1809. 

To  George  M 135 

The  Grave  of  a Poetess 640 

The  Happy  Valley 6S0 

MILLIKEN,  RICHARD  ALFRED. 

Born  in  the  county  of  Cork,  Ireland,  in  1767  ; died  in  1815. 

Groves  of  Blarney 436 

MILMAN,  HENRY  HART. 

Born  in  London,  Feb.  10, 1791. 

Bridal  Song 830 

Hymn— When  our  Heads 741 

Hymn — Brother,  thou  art  Gone 761 

Chorus 787 

MILNES,  RICHARD  MONCKTON. 

Bora  in  Yorkshire,  England,  in  1809. 

The  Brook-Side 279 


INDEX  OF 


Page 

MILTON,  JOHN. 

Born  in  London,  Dec.  9,  1608 ; died  Nov.  8,  1674. 

On  a May  Morning 14 

To  the  Nightingale 53 

Sonnets 365 

Lycidas 502 

Comus;  a Mask 550 

Epitaph  on  Shakespeare 623 

L ’Allegro 646 

II  Penseroso 648 

Sonnets 676 

On  the  Nativity 722 

MOIR,  DAYID  MACBETH. 

Bom  at  Musselburgh,  Scotlaud,  Jan.  5,  1798 ; died  July  6, 1851. 

Casa  Wappy 174 

MONTGOMERY,  ALEXANDER. 

Born  in  Ayrshire,  Scotland,  before  1550;  died  about  1611. 

Night  is  Nigh  Gone 16 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 

Born  at  Irvine,  Scotland,  Nov.  4, 1771 ; died  April  30, 1854. 

To  a Daisy 39 

Evening  in  the  Alps 106 

Reign  of  Christ  on  Earth 728 

Gethsemane 730 

Stranger  and  his  Friend 733 

Humility 748 

Field  of  the  World 752 

What  is  Prayer 753 

Charity 756 

The  Lord  the  Good  Shepherd 772 

“ Thou,  God,  seest  me  ” 789 

Time  Past,  Time  Passing,  Time  to  Come 791 

MOORE,  CLEMENT  C. 

Born  in  New  York,  July  15,  1779. 

Yisit  from  St.  Nicholas 147 


Bom  in  Dublin,  May  28, 1779  ; died  Feb.  25,  1852. 

The  Last  Rose  of  Summer 97 

Wreathe  the  Bowl 185 

Fill  the  Bumper  Fair 186 

And  doth  not  a Meeting  like  This 186 

Come  send  round  the  Wine 187 

Friend  of  my  Soul 188 

Farewell ! but  whenever  youWelcome  the  Hour  188 

Go  where  Glory  waits  thee ! 269 

Fly  to  the  Desert 269 

Fly  not  Yet 286 

The  Harp  that  Once  through  Tara’s  Halls 374 

Song. 374 

Peace  to  the  Slumberers 375 

O ! Breathe  not  his  Name 506 

Those  Evening  Bells 608 

Canadian  Boat  Song 614 

Arranmore 681 


Bom  at  Grantham,  England,  in  1614 ; died  in  1687 

Philosopher’s  Devotion 716 

Charity  and  Humility 747 

MOTHERWELL,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Glasgow,  in  1797  ; died  in  1835. 

They  Come,  the  Merry  Summer  Months 17 

The  Water!  The  Water. 33 

Midnight  Wind 112 

The  Bloom  hath  fled  thy  Cheek,  Mary 307 

Jeanie  Morrison 308 

My  Heid  is  like  to  Rend,  Willie 309 

Cavalier’s  Song. 359 

Covenanter’s  Battle-chant 366 

When  I beneath  the  cold,  red  Earth  am  Sleeping  517 

MOULTRIE,  JOHN. 

A Clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England  ; born  in  Eng.  in  1799. 

The  Three  Sons 169 


MUELLER,  WILHELM.  (German.) 

Born  at  Dessau,  Germany,  Oct.  7,  1794 ; died  Oct.  1,  1827. 

The  Sunken  City.  ( Mangan's  translation.). . 659 
NEELE,  HENRY. 

Born  in  London  in  1798 ; died  (by  hia  own  band)  Feb.  7,  1828. 

Moan,  moan,  ye  Dying  Gales 86 


AUTHORS. 


NEWTON,  JOHN.  e 

Born  in  London  in  1725 ; died  there  in  1807. 

Weeping  Mary 731 

Jesus 737 

NOEL,  THOMA.S 

Author  ot  “ Rhymes  and  Roundelays,”  London,  1841. 

The  Pauper’s  Drive 500 

NORRIS,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  England,  1657 ; died  in  1711. 

Superstition 255 

The  Reply 650 

NORTON,  CAROLINE. 

Bom  at  Hampton  Court,  England,  in  1808. 

To  Ferdinand  Seymour 124 

Mother’s  Heart 136 

We  have  been  Friends  together 183 

Allan  Percy 320 

Love  Not 329 

The  King  of  Denmark's  Ride 478 

OGILYIE,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Aberdeen,  Scotland,  in  1733  ; died  in  1814. 

Hymn  from  Psalm  CXLYIII 780 

O’KEEFE,  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Dublin,  June  24,  1747 ; died  Feb.  4,  1833. 

I am  a Friar  of  Orders  Gray 669 

ORLEANS,  CHARLES,  Duke  of.  (French.) 

Born  in  Paris,  May  26,  1391  ; died  Jan.  4,  1465. 

Fairest  thing  in  Mortal  Eyes.  {R.  Cary's 
translation) 328 

PARSONS,  THOMAS  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  Aug.  18,  1819. 

Song  for  September 93 

Saint  Peray 191 

The  Groomsman  to  his  Mistress 283 

On  a Bust  of  Dante 395 

On  a Lady  Singing 613 

PERCIYAL,  JAMES  GATES. 

Bom  in  Berlin,  Conn.,  Sept.  15,  1795 ; died  May  2, 1856. 

May 15 

The  Coral  Grove 88 

To  Seneca  Lake 89 

It  is  Great  for  our  Country  to  Die 851 

PERCY,  THOMAS. 

Bora  in  Shropshire,  Eng.,  in  1728  ; died  as  Bishop  of  Dromore, 
Ireland,  in  1811. 

Friar  of  Orders  Gray. 213 

PHILOSTRATUS.  (Greek.) 

Born  in  Lemnos,  Greece,  about  182. 

To  Celia.  (B.  Jonson's  translation.) 249 

PIERPONT,  JOHN. 

Born  at  Litchfield,  Conn.,  April  6,  1785. 

My  Child 175 

Centennial  Ode 752 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE. 

Bom  in  London,  Oct.,  1802 ; died  in  Baltimore,  April  11, 1828. 

Serenade 276 

A Health 279 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN. 

Bom  in  Baltimore,  Jan.,  1811 ; died  Oct.  7,  1849. 

Annabel  Lee 323 

The  Raven 578 

The  Bells 607 

POPE,  ALEXANDER. 

Bom  in  London,  May  22,  1688 ; died  May  30,  1744. 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock 406 

Messiah 726 

Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 759 

Universal  Prayer 788 

PRAED,  WINTIIROP  MACKWORTH. 

Bom  in  London  in  1802  ; died  July  15,  1839. 

Twenty-eight  and  Twenty-nine 440 

PRINGLE,  THOMAS. 

Born  at  Blacklaw,  Scotland,  Jan.  5,  1789  ; died  Dec.  5,  1831. 

Afar  in  the  Desert 76 

The  Lion  and  Giraffe 75 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


XX111 


Page 


PROUT,  FATHER.  (Francis  Mahony.) 

born  in  Ireland  about  1805. 

Town  of  Passage 437 

The  Bells  of  Shandon 606 

PRUDENTIUS,  AURELIUS.  (Latin.) 

Born  in  Spain,  348. 

Each  Sorrowful  Mourner.  {J.  M.  Neale's  trans- 
lation.')  764 

QUARLES,  FRANCIS. 

Born  at  Stewards,  near  Rumford,Eng.,in  1592 ; d.  Sept.  8, 1644. 

Sonnets 735 

Fasting 746 

Delight  in  God  only 790 

QUARLES,  JOHN. 

Son  of  Francis  Quarles ; born  in  Essex,  England,  in  1624 ; died 
of  the  Plague  iu  1665. 

Divine  Ejaculation 788 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER, 

Born  in  Budley,  England,  in  1552;  beheaded  Oct.  29,  1618. 

Milkmaid’s  Mother’s  Answer 258 

RAMSAY,  ALLAN. 

Born  in  Crawford,  Scotland,  in  16S5;  died  in  1758. 

Lochaber  no  More 368 

RANDOLPH,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Badby,  England,  in  1605 ; died  March  17,  1634. 

Song  of  Fairies 530 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN. 

Bom  in  Chester  county,  Penn.,  March  12,  1822. 

Autumn’s  Sighing 100 

The  Windy  Night 112 

ROBERTS,  SARAH. 

Bom  in  Portsmouth,  N.  H.,  lives  in  one  of  the  Western 
States. 

The  Voice  of  the  Grass 59 


RONSARD,  PIERRE.  (French.) 

Bom  in  Venddmois,  France,  in  1524;  died  in  1585. 

Return  of  Spring.  ( Anonymous  translation.)  10 
EOS  COE,  WILLIAM. 

Born  at  Mount  Pleasant,  near  Liverpool,  1753;  died  June 


30,  1831. 

On  the  Death  of  Burns 635 

ROSCOE,  WILLIAM  STANLEY. 

Born  in  England  in  1782;  died  October,  1843. 

Dirge 509 


SALIS,  JOHANN  GAUDENZ  VON.  (German.) 

Born  in  Grisons,  Switzerland,  in  1762. 

Song  of  the  Silent  Land.  ( Longfellow's  trans.)  49S 
SANDYS,  GEORGE. 

Bom  in  Bishopsthorpe,  England,  1577  ; d.  in  Kent,  March,  1648. 


Psalm  LX VI 778 

Psalm  XCII 779 

Psalm  CXLVJII 781 

SAPPHO.  (Greek.) 

Bom  in  Lesbos  in  the  sixth  century  before  Christ. 

Blest  as  the  Immortal  Gods.  ( A . Phillips' 
translation.) 260 


SCHILLER,  FREDERIC.  (German.) 

Bom  in  Marbnch,  Germany,  Nov.  10,  1759  ; died  May  9,  1805. 

Indian  Death  Song.  (Frothingham's  trans.). . 378 
BCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 

Born  in  Edinburgh,  Aug.  15,  1771  ; died  Sept.  21,  1832. 


Jock  of  Ilazeldean 234 

Lochinvar 235 

Song — The  Heath  this  Night 262 

Song 300 

Border  Ballad 372 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 373 

Coronach 506 

Hymn  of  the  Hebrew  Maid 745 

SHAKESPEARE,  WILLIAM. 

Bom  in  Stratford-on-Avon,  England  about  April  23,  1664  ; died 
April  23,  1616. 

Morning 18 

Song— The  Greenwood  Tree 60 


Page 

Blow,  blow  thou  Winter  Wind 113 

Sonnets 241 

Take,  O take  those  Lips  Away 251 

Come  away,  Death 257 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 284 

Dirge  of  Imogen 507 

Song  of  the  Fairy 529 

Ariel’s  Songs 546 

Influence  of  Music 611 

Who  is  Sylvia? 617 

SHEA,  JOHN  AUGUSTUS. 

Born  in  Cork,  Ireland,  Nov.  1802;  died  in  Suffield,  Conn., 

Aug.  15,  1845. 

The  Ocean 83 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE. 

Born  in  Field  Place,  England,  Aug.  4,  1792  ; died  July  8, 1822. 

To  the  Skylark 18 

Arethusa 31 

The  Question 35 

The  Cloud 80 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 82 

Autumn,  a Dirge 99 

Dirge  for  the  Year 118 

Lines  to  an  Indian  Air 260 

Love’s  Philosophy 261 

To 261 

Lament 518 

To  Constantia  Singing. 613 

An  Exhortation 645 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty 655 

Mutability 678 

SHENSTONE,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Hales-Owen,  England,  in  1714;  died  Feb.  11,  1763. 

The  Schoolmistress 149 

SHIRLEY,  JAMES. 

Born  in  London,  about  1594 ; died  Oct.  29,  1666. 

Victorious  Men  of  Earth 597 

Death’s  final  Conquest 699 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP. 

Born  in  Penshuvst,  England,  Nov.  29,  1554;  died  Oct.  7,  1586. 

Sonnets 246 

SIMMONS,  B. 

Author  of  “ Legends,  Lyrics  and  other  Poems,”  Edinb’h,  1843. 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Hood 516 

SIMONIDES.  (Greek.) 

Born  in  Julis,  island  of  Cos,  b.  c.  554;  died  b.  c.  469. 

Danae.  {8.  Peter's  translation.) 156 

SKELTON,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Cumberland,  England,  toward  the  latter  part  of  the  15th 
century;  died  June  21,  1529. 

To  Mistress  Margaret  Hussey 616 

SMITH,  CHARLOTTE. 

Bom  in  Sussex,  England,  in  1749  ; died  in  1806. 

The  Nightingale’s  Departure 58 

SMITH,  HORACE. 

Bom  in  London,  Dec.  31,  1779  ; died  July  12,  1839. 

Hymn  to  the  Flowers 48 

On  the  Death  of  George  the  Third 514 


Address  to  the  Mummy  at  Bclzoni’s  Exhibition  589 
SMITS,  DIRK.  (Dutch.) 

Bom  in  Rotterdam,  June  20,  1702 ; died  April  25,  1752. 

On  the  Death  of  an  Infant.  ( Anonymous 


translation.) 166 

SOUTHEY,  CAROLINE  B. 

Bom  in  England,  Dec.  6,  1786 ; died  July  20,  1854. 

Autumn  Flowers 96 

The  Pauper’s  Death-bed 498 

The  Last  Journey 499 

SOUTHEY,  ROBERT. 

Born  in  Bristol,  England,  Aug.  12,  1774;  died  March  21,  1843. 

The  nolly  Tree 114 

The  Inchcape  Rock 480 

Battle  of  Blenheim 596 

SOUTHEY,  R.  and  C. 

Greenwood  Shrift 702 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


xxiv 


SPENCER,  EOBERT  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  England  in  1770  ; died  1834. 

“ Too  late  I staid  ” 2S6 

SPENSER,  EDMUND. 

Born  in  London  in  1553  ; died  Jan.  16,  1599. 

Epithalamion 330 

STANLEY,  THOMAS. 

Born  at  Cumberlow  Green,  Eng.,  in  1625;  died  April  12,  1678. 

The  Tomb 257 

The  Exequies 25S 

STEELING,  JOHN. 

Born  at  Kaines  Castle,  Scotland,  July  20,  1806;  died  Sept. 

18,  1844. 

The  Spice  Tree 72 

The  Husbandman 95 

To  a Child 135 

Rose  and  the  Gauntlet 310 

The  Two  Oceans 590 

Shakespeare 624 

STEENHOLD,  THOMAS. 

Bom  in  Hampshire,  England ; died  Aug.  1549. 

Psalm  XYIII.  Part  first 774 

STILL,  JOHN. 

Bora  in  Grantham,  England,  in  1543 ; died  in  1607. 

Good  Ale 402 

STODDARD,  LAVINIA. 

Bom  in  Guilford,  Conn.,  June  29,  1787  ; died  in  1820. 

Soul’s  Defiance 672 

STODDARD,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Bom  in  Hingham,  Mass.,  July,  1825. 

The  Sea 478 

The  Two  Brides 619 

There  are  Gains  for  all  our  Losses 672 

STODDART,  THOMAS  T. 

Author  of  “ Songs  and  Poems,”  Edinburgh,  1839. 

The  Angler's  Trysting  Tree. 20 

STORY,  WILLIAM  W. 

Bom  in  Salem,  Mass.,  Feb.  19, 1819. 

The  Violet 45 

SUCKLING,  SIR  JOHN. 

Bom  in  Whitton,  England,  in  1609;  died  May  7,  1641. 

Song— Why  so  Pale 285 

SURREY,  LORD. 

Bom  in  England  about  1516 ; died  Jan.  21, 1547. 

Description  of  Spring 10 

The  Means  to  attain  Happy  Life 666 


SUEVILLE,  CLOTILDE  DE.  (French.) 

Bora  in  Vallon-sur-Ardeche,  France,  about  1405;  died  in  1495. 

The  Child  Asleep.  (Longfellow's  translation.)  127 
SWAIN,  CHARLES. 

Bom  in  Manchester,  England,  in  1803. 


Love's  History 323 

SYLVESTER,  JOSHUA. 

bom  in  England  in  1563 ; died  in  1618. 

Contented  Mind. 650 

T ANN  AH  ILL,  ROBERT. 

Bom  in  Paisley,  Scotland,  June  3,  1774;  died  May  17, 1810. 

Midges  Dance  above  the  Burn 81 

Flower  o’  Dumblane 266 

TATE  and  BRADY. 

Nahum  Tste,  bom  in  Dublin  in  1652;  died  Aug.  12,  1715; 
Brady,  bom  in  Bandon,  Ireland,  Oct.  28,  1659 ; died  May  20, 1726. 

Psalm  C 779 

TAYLOR,  BAYARD. 

Bora  in  Kennett  Square,  Pennsylvania,  Jan.  11,  1825. 

The  Arab  to  the  Palm 73 

Storm  Song 85 

The  Phantom 511 

Hylas 563 

TAYLOR,  JEREMY. 

Bom  in  Cambridge,  England,  in  1613;  died  Aug.  13,  1667. 

Of  Heaven 769 


TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 

Bom  in  Lincolnshire,  England,  in  1810. 


Spring 1_» 

Song  of  the  Brook 34 

Bugle  Song 103 

Evening 104 

Song— The  Owl 109 

Second  Song,  to  the  same 109 

Lullaby 123 

The  Reconciliation 176 

Widow  and  Child 176 

From  “In  Memoriam” 179 

Day  Dream 227 

Lady  Clare 237 

Dora. 238 

The  Letters 240 

Now  Sleeps  the  Crimson  Petal 273 

Shepherd's  Idyl. 273 

Come  into  the  Garden,  Maud 274 

Miller’s  Daughter 277 

Ask  me  no  More 296 

Mariana  in  the  South. 299 

LocksleyHall 301 

O,  that  it  were  Possible 306 

My  Love  has  talked 336 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at  Balaklava 3S6 

The  May  Queen 490 

Dirgp 507 

Break,  Break,  Break 520 

Days  that  are  no  More 520 

Lady  of  Shallott 545 

Contemplate  all  this  Work 6S3 

The  Strife 700 

Christmas 743 

Mary 755 

O yet  we  Trust. 755 

TERRY,  ROSE. 

Bom  in  Hartford,  Conn.,  where  she  now  lives. 

Trailing  Arbutus 38 

Reve  Du  Midi 65 

Then 316 

Fishing  Song 519 

TERSTEEGEN,  GERHARD.  (German.) 

Bom  in  Westphalia,  in  1697  ; was  a ribbon  weaver. 

Divine  Love.  (J.  Wesley's  translation.) 757 

Hymn  of  Praise.  (J.  Wesley's  translation .) . . 772 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE. 

Bom  in  Calcutta  in  1811. 

Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse 189 

The  Mahogany  Tree 194 

At  the  Church  Gate 275 

White  Squall 432 

Molony's  Lament 438 

Mr.  Molony’s  Account  of  the  Ball 439 

Age  of  Wisdom 666 

End  of  the  Play 670 

THURLOW,  LORD. 

Bom  June  10, 1781 ; died  June  3,  1829. 

Song  to  May 15 

Sonnet — Autumn  Morn 10S 

Sonnet — To  a Bird  that  Haunted  Lake  Laaken  116 

To  a very  Hlustrious  Nobleman 394 

Sonnet — Immortal  Beauty 616 

Sonnet — The  Nightingale  is  Mute 641 

Sonnet — Who  Best  can  Paint 642 

Sonnet — If  Outward  Accident 653 

TOPLADY,  AUGUSTUS  MONTAGUE. 

Bom  in  Famham,  England,  in  1740;  died  Aug.  11,  1778. 

Prayer,  Living  and  Dying 786 

TRENCH,  RICHARD  CHENEVIX. 

Bom  in  England,  Sept.  9, 1807. 

Harmosan 587 

Be  Patient 6S6 

TUCKERMAN,  HENRY  T. 

Bom  in  Boston,  Mass.,  April  20,  1813. 

Desolation 519 


UHLAND,  LUDWIG.  (German.) 

Boro  in  Tubingen,  Germany,  April  26,  1787. 

The  Passage.  ( Anonymous  translation.)  . . 1S2 
The  Castle  by  the  Sea.  ( Longfellow's  trans.).  519 
The  Lost  Church.  (J.  C.  Siangan's  trans.).. . 688 


t 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


XXV 


Page 

VAUGHAN  HEXRY. 

Born  in  Newton,  England,  in  1621 ; died  in  1695. 


Early  Rising  and  Prayer 715 

The  Bee 717 

The  Feast 734 

They  are  all  Gone 764 

Peace 769 

VERT,  JONES. 

Born  in  Salem,  Mass.,  about  1812. 

Nature 35 

The  Latter  Rain 100 

The  World 686 

Spirit  Land 716 


VICENTE,  GIL.  (Portuguese.) 

Bom  in  Portugal,  about  1482 ; died  about  1537. 

The  Nightingale.  {J.  Bowring's  translation.)  57 
She  is  a Maid.  {Longfellow's  translation.). . . 276 

VILLEGAS,  MANUEL  DE. 

Born  in  Najera,  Spain,  in  1598  ; died  in  1669. 

The  Mother  Nightingale.  {T.  Roscoe's  trans- 
lation.).,.  57 

VISSCHER,  MARIA  TESSELSCHADE.  (Dutch.) 

Born  in  Amsterdam,  in  1594 ; died  June  20,  1649. 

The  Nightingale.  {J.  Bowring's  translation.)  57 
WALLER,  EDMUND. 

Bom  in  Coleshill,  England,  March  3, 1605 ; died  Oct.  21, 1687. 


The  Rose 45 

WALLER,  JOHN  FRANCIS. 

A Barrister  of  Dublin  ; bom  about  1810. 

Spinning-Wheel  Song 231 

WALTON,  ISAAK. 

Born  in  Stafford,  England,  Aug.  9,  1593 ; died  Dec.  15, 16S3. 

The  Angler’s  Wish 23 

WARTON,  THOMAS. 

Bom  in  Basingstoke,  England,  in  1728 ; died  May  21,  1790. 

Inscription  in  a Hermitage 64 

WASTELL,  SIMON. 

Bom  in  Westmoreland,  England,  about  1560 ; died  about  1630. 

Man's  Mortality 707 

WATSON,  THOMAS. 

Born  in  London  ; died  in  1591  or  1592. 

Canzonet 253 

WATTS,  ISAAC. 

Born  in  Southampton,  England,  July  17, 1674;  d.  Nov.  25,  1748. 

Praise  for  Creation  and  Providence 720 

San,  Moon,  and  Stars,  praise  ye  the  Lord 720 

Sincere  Praise 721 

Christ  Dying,  Rising,  and  Reigning 730 

Example  of  Christ 737 

Love 755 

Heavenly  Canaan 765 

“ When  I can  Read  my  Title  Clear” 769 

Psalm  XIX 775 

Psalm  XLVI 777 

Psalm  XL V.  Second  Part 778 

Psalm  LXXII.  First  Part 779 

Psalm  CXVII 780 

Creator  and  Creatures 782 

WELBY,  AMELIA  B. 

Born  in  St.  Michaels,  Maryland,  in  1821. 

The  Old  Maid 620 

WESLEY,  CHARLES. 

Born  in  Lincolnshire,  England,  in  1708;  died  in  1788. 

“Jesus,  lover  of  my  Soul” 738 

“ Eternal  Beam  of  Light  Divine  ” 739 

Jesus,  my  Strength,  my  Hope 789 

“Friend  of  All  ” 740 

True  Use  of  Music 751 

For  Believers 756 

For  those  that  Wait  for  full  Redemption 756 

Desiring  to  Love 757 

Death 762 

Psalm  XX 775 

Thou  God  Unsearchable 791 


WESTWOOD,  THOMAS. 

Author  of  “ Berries  and  Blossoms,” — London,  1850. 

Under  my  Window 159 

Little  Belle 163 

WHITE,  BLANCO. 

Born  in  Spain,  about  1773;  died  in  England,  May  20,  1840. 

To  Night 109 

WHITE,  HENRY  KIRKE. 

Born  in  Nottingham,  March  21,  1785  ; died  Oct.  19,  1806. 

To  the  Harvest  Moon 108 

Solitude 518 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF. 

Born  iu  Haverhill,  Mass.,  in  1808. 

Hampton  Beach 88 

Maud  Muller 311 

Our  State 382 

Ichabod 512 

Barclay  of  Ury 5S6 

To  my  Sister 619 

Burns 638 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest 695 

WILDE,  RICHARD  HENRY. 

Bom  in  Dublin,  Sept.  24,  1789;  d.  in  N.  Orleans,  Sept.  10, 1847. 

Stanzas,  My  Life  is  Like 673 

WILLIAMS,  ROBERT  FOLKSTONE. 

Author  of  “Shakespeare  and  his  Friends,” — London,  1838. 

O,  fill  the  Wine-cup  High 1% 

WILLIAMSON,  W.  C. 

Born  in  Belfast,  Me.,  Jan.  31,  1831. 

It  Might  have  Been 297 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER. 

Bom  in  Portland,  Me.,  Jan.  20,  1807. 

Belfry  Pigeon 69 

Saturday  Afternoon 148 

The  Annoyer 2S9 

WILLMOTT,  ROBERT  ARIS. 

Author  of  various  Religious  Works ; also  of  “Poems,” — Lon- 
don, 1850. 

Child  Praying 164 

WILSON,  JOHN. 

Born  in  Paisley,  Scotland,  in  1788 ; died  April  4,  1854. 

To  a Sleeping  Child 133 

WINSLOW,  HARRIET. 

Born  in  Portland,  Me.,  about  1824. 

Why  thus  Longing 675 

WITHER,  GEORGE. 

Born  in  Bentworth,  England,  June  11,  1588  ; died  May  2,  1667. 

Christmas 195 

Shepherd’s  Resolution 285 

The  Nymph’s  Song 622 

The  Shepherd’s  Hunting 625 

In  a Clear  Starry  Ntght 721 

Twelfth  Day,  or  the  Epiphany 727 

Hymn — For  Anniversary  Marriage  Days 748 

For  a Widower  or  Widow 763 

Poet’s  Hymn  for  Himself 773 

Praise 773 

WOLFE,  CHARLES. 

Born  in  Dublin,  Dec.  14,  1791  ; died  Feb.  21,  1823. 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore 514 

Song— O say  not  that  my  Heart 674 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL. 

Bom  in  Scituate,  Mass.,  Jan.  13,  1785;  died  Dec.  9,  1842. 

The  Bucket 598 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

Born  in  Cockermouth,  Eng.,  April  7,  1770;  died  April  23,  1850. 

March 11 

Morning  in  London 17 

The  Cuckoo 24 

The  Green  Linnet 80 

To  the  Small  Celandine 86 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


Page 

Daffodils 37 

To  the  Daisy 40 

To  the  same  Flower 40 

Nightingale  and  the  Dove 55 

Yarrow  Unvisi  ted 90 

Yarrow  Visited 91 

Yarrow  Eevisited 92 

Fidelity 93 

Influence  of  Natural  Objects 118 

Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves 128 

To  H.  C.  six  years  Old 132 

The  Pet  Lamb 138 

Idle  Shepherd  Boys 141 

Her  Eyes  are  Wild 156 

Lucy  Gray 158 

We  are  Seven 160 

Lucy 165 

To 278 

Sonnet 307 

Laodamia 325 

Sonnets 394 

To  a Highland  Girl 618 

“ She  was  a Phantom  of  Delight  ” 619 

Burns,  at  the  Grave  of 636 

Eesolution  and  Independence 643 

The  Fountain 657 

The  Tables  Turned 657 

Ode  to  Duty 674 

Ode — On  Immortality 695 

Laborer’s  Noonday  Hymn 745 

WOTTON,  SIE  HENEY. 

Born  in  Boughton  Hall,  Eng.,  March  30, 1568 ; d.  Dec.  1639. 

Verses  in  Praise  of  Angling 22 

Ye  Meaner  Beauties 251 

Happy  Life 693 

WYAT,  SIE  THOMAS. 

Born  in  Allington  Castle,  England,  in  1503 ; died  Oct.  11,  1512. 

An  Earnest  Suit 243 

XAVIEE,  ST.  FEANCIS.  (Latin.) 

Bom  in  Xavier,  Navarre,  in  1506  ; died  Dec.  2,  1552. 

My  God,  I Love  Thee  ( Edward  Caswell's 
translation .) 732 

YOUL,  EDWAED. 

A writer  in  “Howitt’s  Journal,” — London,  1847-’8. 

Song  of  Spring 421 


ZEDLITZ,  JOSEPH  CHEISTIAN.  (German.) 

Born  in  Austrian  Silesia,  Feb.  28,  1790. 

The  Midnight  Eeview.  {Anonymous  trans.).  5GS 
ANONYMOUS. 

Song  of  the  Swallow.  {Greek.) 11 

Saxon  Song  of  Summer.  {12th  Century.) 17 

To  Song  Birds  on  a Sunday.  (19 th  Century , 

English.) 31 

The  Owl.  (17 th  Century.) 110 

A Winter  Wind.  {12th  Century , American.)..  115 

The  Skater’s  Song.  (19 th  Century.) 118 

Philip,  my  King.  {12th  Century , English.)  . . 125 
Children  in  the  Wood,  {yith  Century , Eng.)..  135 
Fancy  about  a Boy.  (19?A  Century,  English.) . 140 

Little  Boy  Blue.  (19 th  Century,  English.) 142 

Lady  Ann  Bothwell’s  Lament.  (17 th  Century , 

Scotch.) 155 

My  Playmates.  (19^t  Century , English.) 161 

To  a Child.  {12th  Century , English .) 164 

When  shall  we  Three  meet  Again.  (1S2A  Cen- 
tury, English.) 179 

How  stands  the  Glass  Around.  (18M.  Century , 

English.) 187 

Sir  Cauline.  (14 th  Century , English.) 199 

Nut-Brown  Maid.  (15th  Century , English.)  . . 204 
Young  Beichan  and  Susie  Pye.  {15th  Cen,,  Eng.)  208 

Lord  Lovel.  (15th  Century , English.) 210 

Eobin  Hood  and  Allen-a-dale.  (152A  Century , 

English.) 211 

Truth’s  Integrity.  (16*/t  Century , English.) . . 212 
Spanish  Lady’s  Love.  {15th  Century , English.)  215 
Seaman’s  Happy  Eeturn.  (17</t  Cent.,  English.)  219 
Bridal  of  Andalla.  {Spanish,  Lockhart's  trans- 
lation.)  226 

Zara’s  Ear-rings.  {Spanish,  Lockhart's  trans- 
lation.)  230 


Page 

Watch  Song.  (16 th  Century,  German.) 231 

Old  Story.  {12th  Century,  Irish.) 233 

The  White  Eose.  (11th  Century , English.).. . 248 

Love  not  Me.  {11th  Century , English.) 257 

Kulnasatz,  my  Eeindeer.  {Icelandic,  anony- 
mous translation.) 260 

Eobin  Adair.  (18<A  Century , Scotch.) 263 

Merry  may  the  Keel  Eowe.  (182A  Century, 

Scotch.) 264 

Annie  Laurie.  (18(A  Century,  Scotch.) 265 

O,  Saw  ye  the  Lass.  (18<A  Century,  Scotch  ) . . 267 

Summer  Days.  (19 th  Century,  English.) 275 

O ! tell  me  Love,  the  dearest  Hour.  (19M  Cen- 
tury, English.) 278 

Maiden’s  Choice.  (18(&  Century,  English.) .. . 285 

Deceitfulness  of  Love.  ( 11th  Cen.,  English.) . . 2S8 

Coming  through  the  Eye.  (1SZA  Cen.,  Scotch.)  290 
Love  Unrequited.  (19£A  Century , American.)  292 
Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny,  {loth  Cen- 
tury, Scotch.) 308 

Love.  (12th  Century,  English.) 322 

Winifreda.  (18</t  Century,  English.) 329 

Bull-fight  of  Gazul.  {Spanish,  Lockhart's 

translation.) 353 

Chevy  Chase.  (15 th  Century,  English.) 355 

When  Banners  are  Waving.  {11th  Century, 

Scotch.) 366 

Gallant  Grahams.  {\8th  Century,  Scotch)...  368 
Charlie  is  my  Darling.  {18th  Century,  Scotch.)  369 
Here’s  to  the  King,  Sir!  (18 th  Century,  Scotch.)  369 

Shan  Van  Vocht.  {18th  Century,  Irish.) 375 

God  save  the  King.  {11th  Century,  English.).  376 

Sea  Fight.  (19 th  Century,  English.) 3S8 

Seaman’s  Song.  (18<A  Century,  English.) 390 

HeirofLinne.  {l&th  Century,  English.) 399 

Take  thy  old  Cloak  about  Thee,  {loth  Century, 

English.) 402 

Old  and  Young  Courtier.  {11th  Cen.,  English.)  403 
Malbrouck.  ( French , Father  Front's  trans- 
lation.)  405 

Essence  of  Opera.  {French,  L.  Hunt's  trans.)  425 

Sir  Patrick  Spens.  (15 th  Century,  Scotch.) 445 

Child  Noryce.  {15th  Century,  Scotch.) 446 

Fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan.  (182A  Cen.,  Scotch.)  447 
Dowie  Dens  of  Yarrow.  {15th  Cen.,  Scotch.) . . 449 
Eare  Willy  Drowned  in  Yarrow.  (15 th  Cen- 
tury, Scotch.) 451 

Cruel  Sister.  (15 th  Century,  Scotch.) 452 

Edward,  Edward.  {18th  Century,  Scotch.) 454 

LordEandal.  (15 th  Century,  Scotch.) 454 

Twa  Brothers.  (15 th  Century,  Scotch.) 455 

Twa  Corbies.  (15£A  Century,  Scotch.) 456 

Bonnie  George  Campbell.  {11th  Cen.,  Scotch.)  456 
Lament  of  the  Border  Widow.  (11th  Century, 

Scotch.) 456 

Fair  Helen.  (18>th  Century,  Scotch.) 457 

Lamentation  for  Celin.  ( Spanish , Lockhart's 

translation.) 471 

Very  Mournful  Ballad.  {Spanish,  Byron's 

translation.) 472 

Young  Airly.  {i8th  Century,  Scotch.) 4S7 

King  Arthur’s  Death,  {loth  Cen.,  English.) . . . 522 
Thomas  the  Khymer.  (16 th  Century,  Scotch.)  525 
The  Wee,  wee  Man.  (15 th  Century,  Scotch.).  526 
Eobin  Good  Fellow.  (11  th  Century,  English.)  527 

Fairy  Queen.  (17*A  Century,  English.) 52 8 

Song  of  Fairies.  {11th  Century,  English.) 529 

Birth  of  Venus.  (192A  Century,  English.) 545 

Lords  of  Thule.  {German,  anonymous  trans- 
lation.)  585 

Balder.  {12th  Century,  English.) 5SS 

Song  of  the  Forge.  (19*A  Century,  English.).  593 

The  Lye.  {11th  Century,  English.) 651 

Smoking  Spiritualized.  (11th  Cen.,  English.). . 661 

Time  is  a Feathered  Thing.  {11th  Cen.,  Eng.).  671 

Time’s  Cure.  {12th  Century,  English.) 671 

Poor  Man’s  Song.  (19<A  Century,  English.). . . 679 

Sunrise  comes  to-morrow.  (19f/i  Century, 

. English.) 6S2 

The  Sturdy  Enck.  {11th  Century,  English.). . 699 

Life  and  Death 702 

Lines  on  a Skeleton.  (19M  Century,  English.)  707 
In  the  Desert  of  the  Holy  Land.  (19M  Cen- 
tury, American.) 742 

O Fear  not  Thou  to  Die.  (19M,  Cen.  English.)  758 
New  Jerusalem.  {Latin,  anonymous  trans.)  766 

God  is  Love.  (19tft  Century,  English.) 786 


PART  I. 


POEMS 


OP  NATURE. 


The  world  is  too  much  with  us ; late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a sordid  boon  ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 

And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune ; 

It  moves  us  not. — Great  God ! I’d  rather  be 
A pagan  suckled  in  a creed  outworn  ; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea, 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

Wordsworth. 


1 


\ 


POEMS  OF  NATURE 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  LEAF. 

ARGUMENT. 

A.  gentlewoman  out  of  an  arbour  in  a grove,  seeth  a great 
companie  of  knights  and  ladies  in  a daunce  upon  the 
greene  grasse  ; the  which  being  ended,  they  all  kneele 
downe,  and  do  honour  to  the  daisie,  some  to  the  flower, 
and  some  to  the  leafe.  Afterward  this  gentlewoman 
learneth  by  one  of  these  ladies  the  meaning  hereof, 
which  is  this : They  which  honour  the  flower,  a thing 
fading  with  every  blast,  are  such  as  looke  after  beautie 
and  worldly  pleasure.  But  they  that  honour  the  leafe, 
which  abideth  with  the  root,  notwithstanding  the  frosts 
and  winter  stormes,  are  they  which  follow  vertue  and 
during  qualities,  without  regard  of  worldly  respects. 

Whan  that  Phebus  his  chair  of  gold  so  hie 
Had  whirled  up  the  sterry  sky  alofte, 

And  in  the  Boole  was  entred  certainly : 
When  shoures  sweet  of  raine  descended  softe, 
Causing  the  ground,  fele  times  and  ofte, 

Up  for  to  give  many  an  wholsome  aire, 

And  every  plaine  was  yclothed  faire 

With  newe  greene,  and  maketh  smale  floures 
To  springen  here  and  there  in  fielde  and 
mede ; 

So  very  good  and  wholsome  he  the  shoures, 
That  it  renueth  that  was  olde  and  dede 
In  winter  time ; and  out  of  every  sede 
Springeth  the  herbe,  so  that  every  wight 
Of  this  season  wexeth  glad  and  light. 

And  I,  so  glad  of  the  season  swete, 

Was  happed  thus  upon  a certaine  night: — 
As  I lay  in  my  bedde,  sleepe  ful  unmete 
Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I ne  might 
Rest,  I ne  wist ; for  there  nas  earthly  wight, 
As  I suppose,  had  more  hertes  ease 
Than  I,  for  I nad  sicknesse  nor  disease. 


Wherefore  1 mervaile  greatly  of  my  selfe, 
That  I so  long  withouten  sleepe  lay ; 

And  up  I rose  three  houres  after  twelfe, 
About  the  springing  of  the  day  ; 

And  I put  on  my  geare  and  mine  array, 

And  to  a pleasaunt  grove  I gan  passe, 

Long  er  the  bright  Sunne  up  risen  was  ; 

In  which  were  okes  grete,  streight  as  a line, 
Under  the  which  the  grasse,  so  fresh  of  hewe, 
Was  newly  sprong;  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Every  tree  wel  fro  his  fellow  grew, 

With  branches  brode,  laden  with  leves  newe, 
That  sprongen  out  ayen  the  sunneshene, 
Some  very  redde,  and  some  a glad  light  grene ; 

Which,  as  me  thought,  was  right  a pleasant 
sight ; 

And  eke  the  briddes  songe  for  to  here 
Would  have  rejoiced  any  earthly  wight; 

And  I that  couth  not  yet,  in  no  manere, 
Heare  the  nightingale  of  al  the  yeare, 

Ful  busily  herkened  with  herte  and  eare, 

If  I her  voice  perceive  coud  any  where. 

And,  at  the  last,  a path  of  little  brede 
I found,  that  greatly  had  not  used  be; 

For  it  forgrowen  was  with  grasse  and  weede, 
That  wel  unneth  a wighte  might  it  se : 
Thought  I,  ‘This  path  some  wliider  goth, 
parde ! ’ 

And  so  I followed,  till  it  me  brought 
To  right  a pleasaunt  herber,  well  y wrought, 

That  benched  was,  and  with  turles  newe 
Freshly  turved,  whereof  the  grene  gras, 

So  smale,  so  thick  e,  so  shorto,  so  fresh  of  hewe, 


4 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


That  most  like  unto  grene  wool,  wot  I,  it  was : 
The  hegge  also  that  yede  in  compas, 

And  closed  in  al  the  grene  herhere, 

With  sicamour  was  set  and  eglatere, 

Wrethen  in  fere  so  wel  and  cunningly, 

That  every  branch  and  leafe  grew  by  mesure, 
Plaine  as  a bord,  of  an  height  by  and  by. 

I see  never  thing,  I yon  ensure, 

So  wel  done ; for  he  that  tooke  the  cure 
It  to  make,  y trow,  did  all  his  peine 
To  make  it  passe  alle  tho  that  men  have  seine. 

And  shapen  was  this  herher,  roofe  and  alle, 

As  a prety  parlour ; and  also 

The  hegge  as  thicke  as  a castle  walle, 

That  who  that  list  without  to  stond  or  go, 
Though  he  wold  al  day  prien  to  and  fro, 

He  should  not  see  if  there  were  any  wight 
! Within  or  no ; hut  one  within  wel  might 

| Perceive  all  tho  thot  yeden  there  withoute 
| In  the  field,  that  was  on  every  side 

Covered  with  corn  and  grasse ; that  out  of 
doubt, 

Though  one  wold  seeke  alle  the  world  wide, 
So  rich  a fielde  cold  not  be  espide 
On  no  coast,  as  of  the  quantity ; 

For  of  alle  good  thing  there  was  plenty. 

And  I that  al  this  pleasaunt  sight  sie, 

! Thought  sodainely  I felt  so  swete  an  aire 
Of  the  eglentere,  that  certainely 
There  is  no  herte,  I deme,  in  such  dispaire, 
Ne  with  thoughtes  fro  ward  and  contraire 
i So  overlaid,  but  it  should  soone  have  bote, 

If  it  had  ones  felt  this  savour  sole. 

And  as  I stood  and  cast  aside  mine  eie, 

I was  ware  of  the  fairest  medler  tree, 

That  ever  yet  in  alle  my  life  I sie, 

As  ful  of  blossomes  as  it  might  be ; 

Therein  a goldfinch  leaping  pretile 

Fro  hough  to  bough  ; and,  as  him  list,  he  eet 

Here  and  there  of  buddes  and  floures  swete. 

And  to  the  herher  side  was  joyninge 
This  faire  tree,  of  which  I have  you  tolde, 
And  at  the  laste  the  brid  began  to  singe, 
Whan  he  had  eeten  what  he  ete  wolde, 

So  passing  swetely,  that  by  manifolde 


It  was  more  pleasaunt  than  I coud  devise. 
And  whan  his  song  was  ended  in  this  wise, 

The  nightingale  with  so  mery  a note 
Answered  him,  that  al  the  wood  ronge 
So  sodainely,  that  as  it  were  a sote, 

I stood  astonied ; so  was  I with  the  song 
Thorow  ravished,  that  til  late  and  longe, 

I ne  wist  in  what  place  I was,  ne  where ; 
And  ayen,  me  thought,  she  songe  ever  by 
mine  ere. 

Wherefore  I waited  about  busily, 

On  every  side,  if  I her  might  see ; 

And,  at  the  laste,  I gan  ful  wel  aspy 
Where  she  sat  in  a fresh  grene  laurer  tree, 
On  the  further  side,  even  right  by  me, 

That  gave  so  passinge  a delicious  smelle, 
According  to  the  eglentere  ful  welle. 

Whereof  I had  so  inly  great  pleasure, 

That,  as  me  thought,  I surely  ravished  was 
Into  Paradise,  where  my  desire 
W as  for  to  be,  and  no  ferther  passe 
As  for  that  day ; and  on  the  sote  grasse 
I sat  me  downe ; for,  as  for  mine  entent, 

The  briddes  song  was  more  convenient, 

And  more  pleasaunt  to  me  by  many  folde, 
Than  meat  or  drinke,  or  any  other  thinge. 
Thereto  the  herher  was  so  fresh  and  colde, 
The  wholesome  savours  eke  so  comfortinge, 
That,  as  I demed,  sith  the  beginninge 
Of  the  world  was  never  seene  or  than 
So  pleasaunt  a ground  of  none  earthly  man. 

And  as  I sat,  the  brids  hearkening  thus, 

Me  thought  that  I heard  voices  sodainely, 
The  most  sweetest  and  most  delicious 
That  ever  any  wight,  I trowe  truely, 

Heard  in  their  life ; for  the  armony 
And  sweet  accord  was  in  so  good  musike, 
That  the  voice  to  angels  most  was  like. 

At  the  last,  out  of  a grove  even  by, 

That  was  right  goodly  and  pleasaunt  to  sight, 
I sie  where  there  came,  singing  lustily, 

A world  of  ladies  ; but,  to  tell  aright 
Their  grete  beauty,  it  lieth  not  in  my  might, 
Ne  their  array ; neverthelesse  I shalle 
Telle  you  a part,  though  I speake  not  of  alle. 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  LEAF. 


t 


The  surcotes  white,  of  velvet  wele  sittinge, 
They  were  in  cladde,  and  the  semes  echone, 
As  it  were  a manere  garnishinge, 

Was  set  with  emerauds,  one  and  one, 

By  and  by ; hut  many  a riche  stone 
Was  set  on  the  purfiles,  out  of  doute, 

Of  collers,  sieves,  and  traines  round  abonte. 

As  grete  pearles,  rounde  and  orient, 
Diamondes  fine,  and  rubies  redde, 

And  many  another  stone,  of  which  I went 
The  names  now ; and  everich  on  her  hedde 
A rich  fret  of  gold,  which  without  dread, 
Was  ful  of  stately  riche  stones  set ; 

And  every  lady  had  a chapelet 

On  her  hedde  of  branches  fresh  and  grene, 

So  wele  wrought  and  so  marvelously, 

That  it  was  a noble  sight  to  sene ; 

Some  of  laurer,  and  some  ful  pleasauntly 
Had  chapelets  of  woodbind,  and  saddely 
Some  of  agnus  castus  ware  also 
Chapelets  freshe ; but  there  were  many  of  tho 

That  daunced  and  eke  songe  ful  soberly, 

But  alle  they  yede  in  manner  of  compace ; 
But  one  there  yede  in  mid  the  company, 

Sole  by  her  selfe ; but  alle  followed  the  pace 
That  she  kepte,  whose  hevenly  figured  face 
So  pleasaunt  was,  and  her  wele  shape  person, 
That  of  beauty  she  past  hem  everichon. 

And  more  richly  beseene,  by  many  folde, 

She  was  also  in  every  maner  thing : 

On  her  hedde  ful  pleasaunt  to  beholde, 

A crowne  of  golde  rich  for  any  king : 

A braunch  of  agnus  castus  eke  bearing 
In  her  hand ; and  to  my  sight  truely, 

She  lady  was  of  the  company. 

And  she  began  a roundel  lustely, 

That  “ Suse  le  foyle , defers  moy ,”  men  calle, 
“ Siene  et  monjoly  couer  est  endormy ,” 

And  than  the  company  answered  alle, 

With  voices  sweet  entuned,  and  so  smale, 
That  me  thought  it  the  sweetest  melody 
That  ever  I heard  in  my  life  sothly. 

And  thus  they  came,  dauncinge  and  singinge, 
Into  the  middes  of  the  mode  echone, 

Before  the  herber  where  I was  sittinge ; 

And,  God  wot,  me  thought  I was  wel  bigone ; 


For  than  I might  avise  hem  one  by  one, 

Who  fairest  was,  who  coud  best  dance  or 
singe, 

Or  who  most  womanly  was  in  alle  thinge. 

They  had  not  daunced  but  a little  thro  we, 
Whan  that  I hearde  ferre  of  sodainely, 

So  great  a noise  of  thundering  trumpes  bio  we, 
As  though  it  should  have  departed  the  skie ; 
And,  after  that,  within  a while  I sie, 

From  the  same  grove  where  the  ladies  came 
oute, 

Of  men  of  armes  cominge  such  a route, 

As  alle  the  men  on  earth  had  been  assembled 
In  that  place,  wele  horsed  for  the  nones, 
Steringe  so  fast,  that  al  the  earth  trembled : 
But  for  to  speke  of  riches  and  of  stones, 

And  men  and  horse,  I trowe  the  large  wones, 
Of  Prestir  John,  ne  all  his  tresory, 

Might  not  unneth  have  boght  the  tenth  party 

Of  their  array  : who  so  list  heare  more, 

I shal  rehearse  so  as  I can  a lite. 

Out  of  the  grove,  that  I spake  of  before, 

I sie  come  firste,  al  in  their  clokes  white, 

A company,  that  ware,  for  their  delite, 
Chapelets  freshe  of  okes  serialle, 

Newly  sprong,  and  trumpets  they  were  alle. 

On  every  trumpe  hanging  a broad  banere 
Of  fine  tartarium  were  ful  richely  bete ; 
Every  trumpet  his  lordes  armes  bere ; 

About  their  neckes,  with  great  pearles  sete, 
Collers  brode ; for  cost  they  would  not  lete, 
As  it  would  seem,  for  their  scochones  echone, 
Were  set  aboute  with  many  a precious  stone. 

Their  horse  harneis  was  al  white  also. 

And  after  them  next  in  one  company, 

Came  kinges  of  armes,  and  no  mo, 

In  clokes  of  white  cloth  of  gold  richely ; 
Chapelets  of  greene  on  their  hedes  on  hie ; 
The  crownes  that  they  on  their  scochones  bera 
Were  sette  with  pearle,  ruby,  and  saphere, 

And  eke  great  diamondes  many  one : 

But  al  their  horse  harneis  and  other  gere 
Was  in  a sute  accordinge,  everich  one, 

As  ye  have  herd  the  foresaid  trumpetes  were ; 


6 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


And  by  seeminge,  they  were  nothing  to  lere, 
And  their  guidinge  they  did  so  manerly. 

And,  after  hem,  came  a great  company 

Of  herandes  and  pursevauntes  eke, 

Arraied  in  clothes  of  white  velvette, 

And,  hardily,  they  were  no  thing  to  seke, 
How  they  on  them  should  the  harneis  sette ; 
And  every  man  had  on  a chapelet ; 
Scochones,  and  eke  harneis,  indede, 

They  had  in  sute  of  hem  that  fore  hem  yede. 

Next  after  hem  came,  in  armour  bright 
All  save  their  heades,  seemely  knightes  nine; 
And  every  claspe  and  naile,  as  to  my  sight, 
Of  their  harneis  were  of  rad  golde  fine ; 

With  cloth  of  gold,  and  furred  with  ermine 
Were  the  trappoures  of  their  stedes  stronge, 
Wide  and  large,  that  to  the  ground  did  honge. 

And  every  bosse  of  bridle  and  paitrel 
That  they  had,  was  worth,  as  I wold  wene, 
A thousand  pounde ; and  on  their  heddes,  wel 
Dressed,  were  crownes  of  laurer  grene, 

The  best  made  that  ever  I had  sene ; 

And  every  knight  had  after  him  ridinge 
Three  henchemen  on  hem  awaitinge. 

Of  whiche  every  first,  on  a short  tronchoun, 
His  lordes  helme  bare,  so  richly  dight, 

That  the  worst  was  worthe  the  ransoun 
Of  any  king ; the  second  a shield  bright 
Bare  at  his  backe ; the  thred  bare  upright 
A mighty  spere,  full  sharpe  ground  and  kene, 
And  every  childe  ware  of  leaves  grene 

A fresh  chapelet  upon  his  haires  bright ; 

And  clokes  white  of  fine  velvet  they  ware  ; 
Their  steedes  trapped  and  raied  right, 
Without  difference,  as  their  lordes  were ; 
And  after  hem,  on  many  a fresh  corsere, 
There  came  of  armed  knightes  such  a route, 
That  they  besprad  the  large  field  aboute. 

And  al  they  ware,  after  their  degrees, 
Chapelets  newe  made  of  laurer  grene ; 

Some  of  the  oke,  and  some  of  other  trees, 
Some  in  their  honds  bare  boughes  shene, 
Some  of  laurer,  and  some  of  okes  kene, 


Some  of  hauthorne,  and  some  of  the  wood- 
binde, 

And  many  mo  which  I had  not  in  minde. 

And  so  they  came,  their  horses  freshely  ster- 
inge, 

With  bloody  sownes  of  hir  trompes  loude ; 
There  sie  I many  an  uncouth  disguisinge 
In  the  array  of  these  knightes  proude, 

And  at  the  last,  as  evenly  as  they  coude, 
They  took  their  places  in  middes  of  the  mede, 
And  every  knight  turned  his  horses  hede 

To  his  fellow,  and  lightly  laid  a spere 
In  the  rest;  and  so  justes  began 
On  every  part  about,  here  and  there ; 

Some  brake  his  spere,  some  drew  down  hors 
and  man ; 

About  the  field  astray  the  steedes  ran ; 

And,  to  behold  their  rule  and  governaunce, 

I you  ensure,  it  was  a great  pleasaunce. 

And  so  the  justes  laste  an  houre  and  more ; 
But  tho  that  crowned  were  in  laurer  grene 
Wanne  the  prise ; their  dintes  was  so  sore, 
That  there  was  none  ayent  hem  might  sustene: 
And  the  justinge  al  was  left  off  clene, 

And  fro  their  horse  the  ninth  alight  anone, 
And  so  did  al  the  remnant  everichone. 

And  forth  they  yede  togider,  twain  and  twain, 
That  to  beholde  it  was  a worthy  sight, 
Toward  the  ladies  on  the  grene  plain, 

That  songe  and  daunced,  as  I said  now  right: 
The  ladies,  as  soone  as  they  goodly  might, 
They  brake  of  both  the  song  and  daunce, 
And  yede  to  meet  hem  with  ful  glad  sem 
blaunce. 

And  every  lady  tooke,  ful  womanly, 

By  the  hond  a knight,  and  forth  they  yede 
Unto  a faire  laurer  that  stood  fast  by, 

With  levis  lade,  the  boughes  of  grete  brede ; 
And  to  my  dome  there  never  was,  indede, 
Man  that  had  seene  halfe  so  faire  a tre ; 

For  underneath  there  might  it  well  have  be 

An  hundred  persones,  at  their  owne  plesaunce, 
Shadowed  fro  the  hete  of  Phebus  bright, 

So  that  they  sholde  have  felt  no  grevaunce 
Of  raine  ne  haile  that  hem  hurte  might. 

The  savour  eke  rejoice  would  any  wight 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  LEAF. 


1 


That  had  be  sicke  or  melancolious, 

It  was  so  very  good  and  vertuous. 

And  with  great  reverence  they  inclined  lowe 
To  the  tree  so  soote,  and  faire  of  hewe ; 

And  after  that,  within  a little  throwe, 

They  began  to  singe  and  daunce  of  newe 
Some  songe  of  love,  some  plaininge  of  untrewe, 
Environinge  the  tree  that  stood  upright ; 

And  ever  yede  a lady  and  a knight. 

And  at  the  last  I cast  mine  eye  aside, 

And  was  ware  of  a lusty  company 
That  come  rominge  out  of  the  field  wide, 
Hond  in  hond  a knight  and  a lady ; 

The  ladies  all  in  surcotes,  that  richely 
Purfiled  were  with  many  a riche  stone, 

And  every  knight  of  grene  ware  mantles  on, 

Embrouded  wel  so  as  the  surcotes  were : 

And  everich  had  a chapelet  on  her  hedde, 
Which  did  right  well  upon  the  shining  here, 
Made  of  goodly  floures  white  and  redde; 

The  knightes  eke,  that  they  in  honde  ledde, 
In  sute  of  hem  ware  chapelets  everichone, 
And  before  hem  went  minstreles  many  one. 

As  harpes,  pipes,  lutes,  and  sautry, 

Alle  in  greene ; and  on  their  heades  bare, 

Of  divers  floures,  made  ful  craftely, 

A1  in  a sute,  goodly  chapelets  they  ware ; 
And,  so  dauncinge  into  the  mede  they  fare. 
In  mid  the  which  they  foun  a tuft  that  was 
A1  oversprad  with  floures  in  compas. 

Whereto  they  enclined  everichone 
With  great  reverence,  and  that  ful  humbly ; 
And,  at  the  laste,  there  began  anone 
A lady  for  to  singe  right  womanly 
A bargeret  in  praising  the  daisie ; 

For,  as  me  thought,  among  her  notes  swete, 
She  said  uSi  douce  est  la  Mar  gar  etc  P 

Than  they  alle  answered  her  in  fere, 

So  passingely  wel,  and  so  pleasauntly, 

That  it  was  a blisful  noise  to  here. 

But,  I not  how,  it  happed  sodainely 
As  about  noone,  the  Sunne  so  fervently 
Waxe  hote,  that  the  prety  tender  floures 
Had  lost  the  beauty  of  hir  fresh  coloures, 


Forshronke  with  heat ; the  ladies  eke  to-brent, 
That  they  ne  wiste  where  they  hem  might 
bestowe ; 

The  knightes  s welt,  for  lack  of  shade  nie  shent ; 
And  after  that,  within  a little  throwe, 

The  wind  began  so  sturdily  to  blowe, 

That  down  goeth  all  the  floures  everichone, 
So  that  in  al  the  mede  there  left  not  one ; 

Save  such  as  succoured  were  among  the  leves 
Fro  every  storme  that  might  hem  assaile, 
Growinge  under  the  hegges  and  thicke  greyes ; 
And  after  that  there  came  a storme  of  haile 
And  raine  in  fere,  so  that,  withouten  faile, 
The  ladies  ne  the  knightes  nade  o threed 
Drie  on  them,  so  dropping  was  hir  weed. 

And  whan  the  storm  was  cleane  passed  away, 
Tho  in  white  that  stoode  under  the  tree, 
They  felte  nothing  of  the  grete  affray, 

That  they  in  greene  withoute  had  in  ybe ; 

To  them  they  yede  for  routhe  and  pite, 

Them  to  comforte  after  their  great  disease, 
So  fame  they  were  the  helplesse  for  to  ease. 

Than  I was  ware  how  one  of  hem  in  grene 
Had  on  a crowne,  rich  and  wel  sittinge ; 
Wherefore  I demed  wel  she  was  a quene, 
And  tho  in  grene  on  her  were  awaitinge ; 
The  ladies  then  in  white  that  were  comminge 
Toward  them,  and  the  knightes  in  fere, 
Began  to  comforte  hem,  and  make  hem  chere. 

The  queen  in  white,  that  was  of  grete  beauty, 
Took  by  the  hond  the  queen  that  was  in  grene, 
And  said,  “ Suster,  I have  right  great  pity 
Of  your  annoy,  and  of  the  troublous  tene, 
Wherein  ye  and  your  company  have  bene 
So  longe,  alas ! and  if  that  it  you  please 
To  go  with  me,  I shall  do  you  the  ease, 

“ In  all  the  pleasure  that  I can  or  may ; ” 
Whereof  the  other,  humbly  as  she  might. 
Thanked  her ; for  in  right  il  array 
She  was  with  storm  and  heat,  I you  behight; 
And  every  lady,  then  anone  right, 

That  were  in  white,  one  of  them  took  in  grene 
By  the  hond ; which  whan  the  knights  had 
sene, 


8 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


In  like  wise  ecli  of  them  tooke  a knight 
Cladde  in  greene,  and  forthe  with  hem  they 
fare, 

To  an  hegge,  where  they  anon  right, 

To  make  their  justes,  they  wolde  not  spare 
Boughes  to  hewe  down,  and  eke  trees  square, 
Wherwith  they  made  hem  stately  fires  grete, 
To  drye  their  clothes  that  were  wringinge 
wete. 

And  after  that,  of  herhes  that  there  grewe, 
They  made,  for  blisters  of  the  Sunne  bren- 
ninge, 

Very  good  and  wholesome  ointmentes  new, 
Wherewith  they  yede  the  sick  fast  anointinge ; 
And  after  that  they  yede  about  gaderinge 
Pleasaunt  salades,  which  they  made  hem  ete, 
For  to  refreshe  their  great  unkindly  hete. 

The  lady  of  the  Leafe  than  began  to  praye 
Her  of  the  Floure  (for  so  to  my  seeminge 
They  sholde  he,  as  by  their  arraye) 

To  soupe  with  her,  and  eke,  for  any  thinge, 
That  she  shold  with  her  alle  her  people  bringe : 
And  she  ayen,  in  right  goodly  manere, 
Thanked  her  of  her  most  friendly  chere, 

Saying  plainely,  that  she  would  obaye 
With  all  her  herte,  all  her  commaundement ; 
And  then  anon,  without  lenger  delaye, 

The  lady  of  the  Leafe  hath  one  ysent, 

For  a palfray,  after  her  intent, 

Arrayed  wel  and  faire  in  harneis  of  gold, 

For  nothing  lacked,  that  to  him  long  shold. 

And  after  that,  to  al  her  company 

She  made  to  purveye  horse  and  every  thinge 

That  they  needed ; and  than  ful  lustily, 

Even  by  the  herber  where  I was  sittinge 
They  passed  alle,  so  pleasantly  singinge, 

That  it  would  have  comforted  any  wight. 
But  than  I sie  a passing  wonder  sight ; 

For  than  the  nightingale,  that  al  the  day 
Had  in  the  laurer  sate,  and  did  her  might 
The  whole  service  to  singe  longing  to  May, 
All  sodainely  began  to  take  her  flight ; 

And  to  the  lady  of  the  Leafe,  forthright, 

She  flew,  and  set  her  on  her  bond  softely, 
Which  was  a thing  I marveled  of  gretely. 

The  goldfinch  eke,  that  fro  the  medler  tree 
Was  fled  for  heat  into  the  bushes  colde, 


Unto  the  lady  of  the  Floure  gan  flee, 

And  on  her  hond  he  sit  him  as  he  wolde, 
And  pleasauntly  his  winges  gan  to  fold ; 

And  for  to  singe  they  pained  hem  both,  as  sore 
As  they  had  do  of  al  the  day  before. 

And  so  these  ladies  rode  forth  a great  pace, 
And  al  the  rout  of  knightes  eke  in  fere; 

And  I that  had  seen  al  this  wonder  case, 
Thought  I wold  assaye  in  some  manere, 

To  know  fully  the  trouth  of  this  matere ; 
And  what  they  were  that  rode  so  pleasauntly. 
And  whan  they  were  the  herber  passed  by, 

I drest  me  forth,  and  happed  to  mete  anone 
Right  a faire  lady,  I do  you  ensure ; 

And  she  came  riding  by  herselfe  alone, 

Alle  in  white;  with  semblance  ful  demure, 

I salued  her,  and  bad  good  aventure 
Might  her  befalle,  as  I coud  most  humbly ; 
And  she  answered,  “ My  doughter,  gra- 
mercy ! ” 

“Madame,”  quoth  I,  “if  that  I durst  enquere 
Of  you,  I would  faine,  of  that  company, 

Wite  what  they  be  that  past  by  this  arbere?  ” 
And  she  ayen  answered  right  friendely : — 
“My  faire  doughter,  alle  tho  that  passed 
here  by 

In  white  clothing,  be  servaunts  everichone 
Unto  the  Leafe,  and  I my  selfe  am  one. 

“See  ye  not  her  that  crowned  is,”  quoth  she, 
“Alle  in  white?” — “Madame,”  quoth  I,  “yes:” 
“That  is  Diane,  goddesse  of  chastite ; 

And  for  because  that  she  a maiden  is, 

In  her  honde  the  braunch  she  beareth  this, 
That  agnus  castus  men  calle  properly ; 

And  alle  the  ladies  in  her  company, 

“Which  ye  se  of  that  herbe  chapelets  weare, 
Be  such  as  han  kept  alway  hir  maidenheed : 
And  alle  they  that  of  laurer  chapelets  beare, 
Be  such  as  hardy  were,  and  manly  in  deed, — 
Victorious  name  which  never  may  be  dede! 
And  alle  they  were  so  worthy  of  hir  hond, 

In  hir  time,  that  none  might  hem  withstond. 

“And  tho  that  weare  chapelets  on  their  hede 
Of  fresh  woodbinde,  be  such  as  never  were 
To  love  untrue  in  word,  thought,  ne  dede, 
But  aye  stedfast ; ne  for  pleasaunce,  ne  fere, 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  LEAF. 


9 


Though  that  they  should  their  hertes  all  to- 
tere, 

Would  never  flit  hut  ever  were  stedfast, 

Til  that  their  lives  there  asunder  brast.” 

“ Now  faire  Madame,”  quoth  I,  “ yet  I would 
praye 

Your  ladiship,  if  that  it  mighte  be, 

That  I might  knowe  by  some  maner  wave, 
(Sith  that  it  hath  liked  your  beaute, 

The  trouth  of  these  ladies  for  to  tell  me  ;) 
What  that  these  knightes  be  in  rich  armour, 
And  what  tho  be  in  grene  and  weare  the  flour? 

“And  why  that  some  did  reverence  to  that 
tre, 

And  some  unto  the  plot  of  floures  faire  ? ” 
“With  right  good  will,  my  faire  doughter,” 
quoth  she, 

“ Sith  your  desire  is  good  and  debonaire ; 

The  nine  crowned  be  very  exemplaire 
Of  al  honour  longing  to  chivalry ; 

And  those  certaine  be  called  the  Nine  Worthy, 

“Which  ye  may  see  now  ridinge  alle  before, 
That  in  hir  time  did  many  a noble  dede, 

And  for  their  worthines  ful  oft  have  bore 
The  crowne  of  laurer  leaves  on  their  hede, 
As  ye  may  in  your  olde  bookes  rede ; 

And  how  that  he  that  was  a conquerour, 

Had  by  laurer  alway  his  most  honour. 

“And  tho  that  beare  bowes  in  their  honde 
Of  the  precious  laurer  so  notable, 

Be  such  as  were,  I wol  ye  understonde, 
Noble  knightes  of  the  round  table, 

And  eke  the  Douseperis  honourable, 

Which  they  beare  in  signe  of  victory ; 

It  is  witnesse  of  their  deedes  mightily. 

“Eek  there  be  knightes  hide  of  the  garter, 
That  in  hir  time  did  right  worthily  ; 

And  the  honour  they  did  to  the  laurer, 

Is  for  by  it  they  have  their  laud  wholly, 
Their  triumph  eke,  and  martial  glory ; 

Which  unto  them  is  more  parfite  richesse, 
Than  any  wight  imagine  can  or  gesse. 

“For  one  leafe,  given  of  that  noble  tree 
To  any  wight  that  hath  done  worthily, 

And  it  be  done  so  as  it  ought  to  be, 

Is  more  honour  than  any  thing  earthly ; 


Witnes  of  Rome  that  founder  was  truly 
Of  alle  knighthood  and  deeds  marvelous ; 
Record  I take  of  Titus  Livius. 

“And  as  for  her  that  crowned  is  in  greene, 

It  is  Flora,  of  these  floures  goddesse ; 

And  all  that  here  on  her  awaiting  beene, 

It  are  such  folk  that  loved  idlenesse, 

And  not  delite  in  no  businesse, 

But  for  to  hunte  and  hauke,  and  pleye  in 
medes, 

And  many  other  suchlike  idle  dedes. 

“And  for  the  great  delite  and  pleasaunce 
They  have  to  the  floure,  and  so  reverently 
They  unto  it  do  such  obeisaunce, 

As  ye  may  se.” — “ Now  faire  Madame,” 
quoth  I, 

“If  I durst  aske,  what  is  the  cause  and  why, 
That  knightes  have  the  ensigne  of  honour, 
Rather  by  the  leafe  than  the  floure  ? ” 

“Soothly,  doughter,”  quod  she,  “this  is  the 
trouth : — 

For  knightes  ever  should  be  persevering, 

To  seeke  honour  without  feintise  or  slouth, 
Fro  wele  to  better  in  all  manner  thinge ; 

In  signe  of  which,  with  leaves  aye  lastinge, 
They  be  rewarded  after  their  degre, 

Whose  lusty  grene  may  not  appaired  be, 

“ But  aie  keping  their  beaute  fresh  and 
greene ; 

For  there  nis  storme  that  may  hem  deface, 
Haile  nor  snow,  winde  nor  frostes  kene ; 
Wherfore  they  have  this  property  and  grace. 
And  for  the  floure,  within  a little  space 
Wolle  be  lost,  so  simple  of  nature 
They  be,  that  they  no  greevance  may  endure ; 

“And  every  storme  will  bio  we  them  soone 
awaye, 

Ne  they  laste  not  but  for  a sesone ; 

That  is  the  cause,  the  very  trouth  to  saye, 
That  they  may  not,  by  no  way  of  resone, 

Be  put  to  no  such  occupation.” 

“Madame,”  quoth  I,  “with  al  mine  whole 
servise 

I thanke  you  now,  in  my  most  humble  wise ; 

“For  now  I am  ascertained  thurghly, 

Of  every  thing  that  I desired  to  knowe.” 

“I  am  right  glad  that  I have  said,  sothly, 


10 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ought  to  your  pleasure,  if  ye  wille  me  trowe,” 
Quod  she  ayen,  “but  to  whom  do  ye  owe 
Your  service?  And  which  wille  ye  honoure, 
Tel  me  I pray,  this  yere,  the  Leafe  or  the 
Floure  ? ” 

“ Madame,”  quoth  I,  “ though  I be  least 
worthy, 

Unto  the  Leafe  I owe  mine  observaunce : n 
“That  is,”  quod  she,  “right  wel  done  cer- 
tainly ; 

And  I pray  God  to  honour  you  avaunce, 

And  kepe  you  fro  the  wicked  remembraunce 
Of  Malebouche,  and  all  his  crueltie, 

And  alle  that  good  and  well  conditioned  be. 

“For  here  may  I no  lenger  now  abide, 

I must  followe  the  great  company, 

That  ye  may  see  yonder  before  you  ride.” 
And  forth,  as  I couth,  most  humbly, 

I tooke  my  leve  of  her,  as  she  gan  hie 
After  them  as  faste  as  ever  she  might , 

And  I drow  homeward,  for  it  was  nigh  night, 

And  put  al  that  I had  seene  in  writing, 
Under  support  of  them  that  lust  it  to  rede. 

O little  booke,  thou  art  so  unconning, 

How  darst  thou  put  thy  self  in  prees  for  drede? 
It  is  wonder  that  thou  wexest  not  rede ! 

Sith  that  thou  wost  ful  lite  who  shall  behold 
Thy  rude  langage,  ful  boistously  unfold. 

Geoffrey  Chatjcer. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  SPRING. 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth 
brings, 

With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the 
vale; 

The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 

The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 

Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs ; 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the 
pale, 

The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 

The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale ; 

The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 

The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 


The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings  ; 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowres’  bale. 
And  thus  I see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 

Lord  Surrey. 


THE  AIRS  OF  SPRING. 

Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air, 

That  with  kind  warmth  doth  repair 
Winter’s  ruins  ; from  whose  breast 
All  the  gums  and  spice  of  th’  East 
Borrow  their  perfumes ; whose  eye 
Gilds  the  morn,  and  clears  the  sky ; 
Whose  disheveled  tresses  shed 
Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed ; 

On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  drest, 
The  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 
Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring, 
Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing ! 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 
Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows, 
With  a pregnant,  flowery  birth, 

Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth. 

If  he  nip  the  early  bud ; 

If  he  blast  what’s  fair  or  good ; 

If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers ; 

If  he  shake  our  halls  or  bowers ; 

If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us, 

Thou  canst  stroke  great  iEolus, 

And  from  him  the  grace  obtain, 

To  bind  him  in  an  iron  chain. 

Thomas  Carew. 


RETURN  OF  SPRING. 

God  shield  ye,  heralds  of  the  spring, 

Ye  faithful  swallows,  fleet  of  wing, 
Houps,  cuckoos,  nightingales, 
Turtles,  and  every  wilder  bird, 

That  make  your  hundred  chirpings  heard 
Through  the  green  woods  and  dales. 

God  shield  ye,  Easter  daisies  all, 

Fair  roses,  buds,  and  blossoms  small, 


EARLY  I 

SPRING.  11 

And  he  whom  erst  the  gore 

And  whatever  the  gift, 

Of  Ajax  and  Narciss  did  print, 

Let  its  size  speak  its  worth. 

Ye  wild  thyme,  an.se,  balm,  and  mint, 

The  swallow,  the  swallow, 

I welcome  ye  once  more. 

Upon  you  doth  wait ; 

An  alms-man  and  suppliant, 

God  shield  ye,  bright  embroider’d  train 

He  stands  at  your  gate ; 

Of  butterflies,  that  on  the  plain, 

Let  him  in  then,  I say, 

Of  each  sweet  herblet  sip ; 

For  no  gray-beards  are  we, 

And  ye,  new  swarms  of  bees,  that  go 

To  be  foiled  in  our  glee ; 

Where  the  pink  flowers  and  yellow  grow, 

But  boys  who  will  have  our  own  way. 

To  kiss  them  with  your  lip. 

Translation  of  Mitchell.  Anonymous  (Greek). 

A hundred  thousand  times  I call 
A hearty  welcome  on  ye  all : 

— — 

This  season  how  I love — 

MARCH. 

This  merry  din  on  every  shore — 

The  cock  is  crowing, 

For  winds  and  storms,  whose  sullen  roar 

The  stream  is  flowing, 

Forbade  my  steps  to  rove. 

The  small  birds  twitter, 

Pierre  Eonsard  (French). 

Anonymous  Translation. 

The  lake  doth  glitter, 

The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun ; 
The  oldest  and  youngest 
Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

SONG  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

The  cattle  are  grazing, 
Their  heads  never  raising ; 

Sung  by  the  children , passing  from  door  to  door , 
at  the  return  of  the  swallow. 

There  are  forty  feeding  like  one ! 

The  swallow  is  come ! 

Like  an  army  defeated 

The  swallow  is  come ! 

The  snow  hath  retreated, 

He  brings  us  the  season  of  vernal  delight, 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 

With  his  back  all  of  sable,  and  belly  of  white. 

On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 

Have  you  nothing  to  spare, 

The  ploughboy  is  whooping — anon — anon ! 

That  his  palate  would  please — 

There ’s  joy  on  the  mountains ; 

A fig,  or  a pear, 

There ’s  life  in  the  fountains ; 

Or  a slice  of  rich  cheese  ? 

Small  clouds  are  sailing, 

Mark,  he  bars  all  delay : 

Blue  sky  prevailing ; 

At  a word,  my  friend,  say, 

The  rain  is  over  and  gone ! 

Is  it  yes,  is  it  nay  ? 

Do  we  go  ? do  we  stay  ? 
One  gift,  and  we’re  gone ; 

William  Wordsworth. 

Refuse,  and  anon, 

On  your  gate  and  your  door 

SPRING. 

All  our  fury  we  pour ; 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 

Or  our  strength  shall  be  tried 

0 sweet  new  year,  delaying  long ; 

On  your  sweet  little  bride ; 

Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong, 

From  her  seat  we  will  tear  her, 
From  her  home  we  will  bear  her ; 

Delaying  long ; delay  no  more. 

She  is  light,  and  will  ask 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 

But  small  hands  for  the  task. 

Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 

Let  your  bounty  then  lift 

Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

A small  aid  to  our  mirth, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 

12 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Bring  orchis,  bring  the  fox-glove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell’s  darling  bine, 
Deep  tulips  dasbed  with  fiery  dew, 
Laburnums,  dropping- wells  of  fire. 

0 thou,  new  year,  delaying  long, 
Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a frozen  bud, 
And  flood  a fresher  throat  with  song. 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow ; 
Now  burgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 
By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a lovelier  hue, 

And  drowned  in  yonder  living  blue 
The  lark  becomes  a sightless  song. 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 

The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 
On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dive3 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 
To  build  and  brood,  that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land ; and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ; and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 

Alfbed  Tennybojt. 


TO  THE  SNOW-DROP. 

Peetty  firstling  of  the  year ! 

Herald  of  the  host  of  flowers ! 

Hast  thou  left  thy  cavern  drear, 

In  the  hope  of  summer  hours  ? 

Back  unto  thy  earthen  bowers ! 

Back  to  thy  warm  world  below, 

Till  the  strength  of  suns  and  showers 
Quell  the  now  relentless  snow ! 

Art  still  here  ? — Alive  ? and  blythe  ? 
Though  the  stormy  Night  hath  fled, 


And  the  Frost  hath  passed  his  scythe 
O’er  thy  small,  unsheltered  head  ? 

Ah ! — some  lie  amidst  the  dead, 

(Many  a giant,  stubborn  tree, — 

Many  a plant,  its  spirit  shed,) 

That  were  better  nursed  than  thee ! 

What  hath  saved  thee  ? Thou  wast  not 
’Gainst  the  arrowy  winter  furred, — 
Armed  in  scale, — but  all  forgot 
When  the  frozen  winds  were  stirred. 
Nature,  who  doth  clothe  the  bird, 
Should  have  hid  thee  in  the  earth, 

Till  the  cuckoo’s  song  was  heard,  * 
And  the  Spring  let  loose  her  mirth. 

Nature,— deep  and  mystic  word ! 

Mighty  mother,  still  unknown ! 

Thou  didst  sure  the  snow-drop  gird 
With  an  armor  all  thine  own ! 

Thou,  who  sent’st  it  forth  alone 
To  the  cold  and  sullen  season, 

(Like  a thought  at  random  thrown,) 
Sent  it  thus  for  some  grave  reason ! 

If ’t  were  but  to  pierce  the  mind 
With  a single,  gentle  thought, 

Who  shall  deem  thee  harsh  or  blind 
Who  that  thou  hast  vainly  wrought  ? 
Hoard  the  gentle  virtue  caught 
From  the  snow-drop, — reader  wise ! 

Good  is  good,  wherever  taught, 

On  the  ground  or  in  the  skies ! 

Babey  Cobxwall. 


APRIL. 

Lessons  sweet  of  Spring  returning, 
Welcome  to  the  thoughtful  heart! 

May  I call  ye  sense  or  learning, 

Instinct  pure,  or  heav’n-taught  art  ? 
Be  your  title  what  it  may, 

Sweet  and  lengthening  April  day, 

While  with  you  the  soul  is  free, 

Ranging  wild  o’er  hill  and  lea ; 

Soft  as  Memnon’s  harp  at  morning, 

To  the  inward  ear  devout, 

Touched  by  light  with  heavenly  warning, 
Your  transporting  chords  ring  out. 


APRIL.  13 


Every  leaf  in  every  nook, 

Every  wave  in  every  brook, 

Chanting  with  a solemn  voice, 

Minds  us  of  our  better  choice. 

Meeds  no  show  of  mountain  hoary, 
Winding  shore  or  deepening  glen, 
Where  the  landscape  in  its  glory, 

Teaches  truth  to  wandering  men. 

Give  true  hearts  but  earth  and  sky, 

And  some  flowers  to  bloom  and  die ; 
Homely  scenes  and  simple  views 
Lowly  thoughts  may  best  infuse. 

See  the  soft  green  willow  springing 
Where  the  waters  gently  pass, 

Every  way  her  free  arms  flinging 
O’er  the  moss  and  reedy  grass. 

Long  ere  winter  blasts  are  fled, 

See  her  tipp’d  with  vernal  red, 

And  her  kindly  flower  displayed 
Ere  her  leaf  can  cast  a shade. 

Though  the  rudest  hand  assail  her, 
Patiently  she  droops  awhile, 

But  when  showers  and  breezes  hail  her, 
Wears  again  her  willing  smile. 

Thus  I learn  contentment’s  power 
From  the  slighted  willow  bower, 

Ready  to  give  thanks  and  live 
On  the  least  that  Heaven  may  give. 

1^  the  quiet  brooklet  leaving, 

Up  the  stormy  vale  I wind, 

Haply  half  in  fancy  grieving 
For  the  shades  I leave  behind, 

By  the  dusty  wayside  dear, 

Nightingales  with  joyous  cheer 
Sing,  my  sadness  to  reprove, 

Gladlier  than  in  cultured  grove. 

Where  the  thickest  boughs  are  twining 
Of  the  greenest,  darkest  tree, 

There  they  plunge,  the  light  declining — 
All  may  hear,  but  none  may  see. 
Fearless  of  the  passing  hoof, 

Hardly  will  they  fleet  aloof; 

So  they  live  in  modest  ways, 

Trust  entire,  and  ceaseless  praise. 

Join*  Keble. 


ALMOND  BLOSSOM. 

Blossom  of  the  almond-trees, 

April’s  gift  to  April’s  bees, 

Birthday  ornament  of  spring, 

Flora’s  fairest  daughterling ; — 

Coming  when  no  flow’rets  dare 
Trust  the  cruel  outer  air ; 

When  the  royal  king-cup  bold 
Dares  not  don  his  coat  of  gold ; 

And  the  sturdy  blackthorn  spray 
Keeps  his  silver  for  the  May ; — 

Coming  when  no  flow’rets  would, 

Save  thy  lowly  sisterhood, 

Early  violets,  blue  and  white, 

Dying  for  their  love  of  light. 

Almond  blossom,  sent  to  teach  us 
That  the  spring-days  soon  will  reach  us, 
Lest,  with  longing  over-tried, 

We  die  as  the  violets  died — 

Blossom,  clouding  all  the  tree 
With  thy  crimson  broidery, 

Long  before  a leaf  of  green 
On  the  bravest  bough  is  seen ; 

Ah ! when  winter  winds  are  swinging 
All  thy  red  bells  into  ringing, 

With  a bee  in  every  bell, 

Almond  bloom,  we  greet  thee  well. 

Edwin  Arnold. 


SPRING. 

Behold  the  young,  the  rosy  Spring, 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing, 
While  virgin  graces,  warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o’er  her  dewy  way. 

The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languished  into  silent  sleep ; 

And  mark ! the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  reflecting  wave  ; 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a kinder  sky. 

Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away, 

And  cultured  field  and  winding  stream 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flow’ry  bells : 


14 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine ; 
Clusters  bright  festoon  the  vine ; 

All  along  the  branches  creeping, 

Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping, 

Little  infant  fruits  we  see 
Nursing  into  luxury. 

Translation  of  T.  Moose.  Anacbeon. 


SONG:  ON  MAY  MORNING. 

Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day’s  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with 
her 

The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap 
throws 

The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 

Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

John  Milton. 


A DROP  OF  DEW. 

See  how  the  orient  dew, 

Shed  from  the  bosom  of  the  morn 
Into  the  blowing  roses, 

(Yet  careless  of  its  mansion  new 
For  the  clear  region  where  ’twas  born) 
Round  in  itself  incloses, 

And  in  its  little  globe’s  extent 
Frames,  as  it  can,  its  native  element. 

How  it  the  purple  flower  does  slight, 
Scarce  touching  where  it  lies ; 

But  gazing  back  upon  the  skies, 
Shines  with  a mournful  light, 

Like  its  own  tear, 

Because  so  long  divided  from  the  sphere ; 
Restless  it  rolls,  and  unsecure, 
Trembling,  lest  it  grow  impure ; 
Till  the  warm  sun  pities  its  pain, 
And  to  the  skies  exhales  it  back  again. 

So  the  soul,  that  drop,  that  ray, 

Of  the  clear  fountain  of  eternal  day, 


Could  it  within  the  human  flower  be  seen, 
Remembering  still  its  former  height, 

Shuns  the  sweet  leaves  and  blossoms  green, 
And,  recollecting  its  own  light, 

Does,  in  its  pure  and  circling  thoughts,  express 
The  greater  heaven  in  a heaven  less. 

In  how  coy  a figure  wound, 

Every  way  it  turns  away ; 

So  the  world  excluding  round, 

Yet  receiving  in  the  day. 

Dark  beneath,  but  bright  above ; 

Here  disdaining,  there  in  love. 

How  loose  and  easy  hence  to  go ! 

How  girt  and  ready  to  ascend ! 

Moving  but  on  a point  below, 

It  all  about  does  upwards  bend. 

Such  did  the  manna's  sacred  dew  distil, 
White  and  entire,  although  congeal’d  and 
chill— 

Congealed  on  earth,  but  does,  dissolving,  run 
Into  the  glories  of  th’  Almighty  sun. 

Andbew  Mae  yell. 


SONG. 

Phcebus,  arise, 

And  paint  the  sable  skies 
With  azure,  white,  and  red ; 

Rouse  Memnon’s  mother  from  her  Tython’s 
bed, 

That  she  thy  career  may  with  roses  spread, 
The  nightingales  thy  coming  each  where  sing, 
Make  an  eternal  spring. 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  dead ; 

Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 

In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 

And,  emperor-like,  decore 

With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair : 

Chase  hence  the  ugly  night, 

Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glorious 
light. 

This  is  that  happy  mom, 

That  day,  long-wished  day, 

Of  all  my  life  so  dark, 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  ruin  sworn, 

And  fates  my  hopes  betray,) 

Which,  purely  white,  deserves 
An  everlasting  diamond  should  it  mark. 

This  is  the  morn  should  bring  unto  this  grove 


MAY.  15 

My  love,  to  hear,  and  recompense  my  love. 

And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats 

Fair  king,  who  all  preserves, 

A gush  of  trembling  notes. 

But  show  thy  blushing  beams, 
And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May; 

Shalt  see  than  those  which  by  Peneus’  streams 

The  tresses  of  the  woods 

Bid  once  thy  heart  surprise : 

With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind 

Nay,  suns,  which  shine  as  clear 

play; 

As  thou  when  two  thou  didst  to  Rome  appear. 

And  the  full-brimming  floods, 

Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise. 

As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 

If  that  ye  winds  would  hear 

Hail  the  returning  sun. 

A voice  surpassing,  far,  Amphion’s  lyre, 

James  Gates  Peecival. 

Your  furious  chiding  stay; 

Let  Zephyr  only  breathe, 

And  with  her  tresses  play, 

Kissing  sometimes  those  purple  ports  of  death. 

SONG  TO  MAY. 

The  winds  all  silent  are, 
And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 

May  ! queen  of  blossoms, 

Ensaffroning  sea  and  air, 

And  fulfilling  flowers, 

Makes  vanish  every  star : 

With  what  pretty  music 

Night  like  a drunkard  reels 

Shall  we  charm  the  hours  ? 

Bevond  the  hills,  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels. 

Wilt  thou  have  pipe  and  reed, 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  decked  in  every 

Blown  in  the  open  mead  ? 

hue, 

Or  to  the  lute  give  heed 

The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their 

In  the  green  bowers  ? 

blue: 

Thou  hast  no  need  of  us, 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place, 

And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  she,  alas ! 

Or  pipe  or  wire, 
That  hast  the  golden  bee 

William  Drummond. 

Ripened  with  fire ; 

MAY. 

And  many  thousand  more 
Songsters,  that  thee  adore, 
Filling  earth’s  grassy  floor 

I feel  a newer  life  in  every  gale ; 
The  winds-  that  fan  the  flowers, 

With  new  desire. 

Thou  hast  thy  mighty  herds, 

And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the 

Tame,  and  free  livers ; 

sail, 

Doubt  not,  thy  music  too 

Tell  of  serener  hours, — 

In  the  deep  rivers ; 

Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away 

And  the  whole  plumy  flight, 

Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

Warbling  the  day  and  night — 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

Up  at  the  gates  of  light, 
See,  the  lark  quivers ! 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air, 

And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

When  with  the  jacinth 

Beauty  is  budding  there ; 

Coy  fountains  are  tressed ; 

The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 

And  for  the  mournful  bird 

Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 

Greenwoods  are  dressed, 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

That  did  for  Tereus  pine ; 
Then  shall  our  songs  bo  thine, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 

To  whom  our  hearts  incline : 

To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

May,  be  thou  blessed ! 

A canopy  of  leaves ; 

Lord  Thurlow 

16 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


SPRING. 

Now  the  lusty  spring  is  seen ; 
Golden  yellow,  gaudy  blue, 
Daintily  invite  the  view. 

Every  where,  on  every  green, 

Roses  blushing  as  they  blow, 

And  enticing  men  to  pull ; 

Lilies  whiter  than  the  snow ; 
Woodhines  of  sweet  honey  full — 

All  love’s  emblems,  and  all  cry, 
Ladies,  if  not  plucked,  we  die ! 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


SUMMER  LONGINGS. 

Las  mananas  floridas 
De  Abril  y Mayo. 

Calderon. 

Ah  ! my  heart  is  weary  waiting — 
Waiting  for  the  May — 

Waiting  for  the  pleasant  rambles, 

Where  the  fragrant  hawthorn  brambles, 

With  the  woodbine  alternating, 

Scent  the  dewy  way. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  weary  waiting — 
Waiting  for  the  May. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May — 

Longing  to  escape  from  study, 

To  the  young  face  fair  and  ruddy, 

And  the  thousand  charms  belonging 
To  the  summer’s  day. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sick  with  longing, 
Longing  for  the  May. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May — 

Sighing  for  their  sure  returning, 

When  the  summer  beams  are  burning, 

Hopes  and  flowers  that,  dead  or  dying, 
All  the  winter  lay. 

Ah ! my  heart  is  sore  with  sighing, 
Sighing  for  the  May. 


Ah ! my  heart  is  pained  with  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May — 
Throbbing  for  the  sea-side  billows, 

Or  the  water-wooing  willows ; 

Where,  in  laughing  and  in  sobbing, 
Glide  the  streams  away. 

Ah ! my  heart,  my  heart  is  throbbing, 
Throbbing  for  the  May. 

Waiting  sad,  dejected,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May : 

Spring  goes  by  with  wasted  warnings — 
Moonlit  evenings,  sunbright  mornings — 
Summer  comes,  yet  dark  and  dreary 
Life  still  ebbs  away ; 

Man  is  ever  weary,  weary, 

Waiting  for  the  May  ! 

Denis  Florence  McCarthy. 


NIGHT  IS  NIGH  GONE. 

Hey,  now  the  day ’s  dawning ; 
The  jolly  cock’s  crowing; 

The  eastern  sky ’s  glowing ; 

Stars  fade  one  by  one ; 

The  thistle-cock ’s  crying 
On  lovers  long  lying, 

Cease  vowing  and  sighing ; 
The  night  is  nigh  gone. 

The  fields  are  o’erflowing 
With  go  wans  all  glowing, 

And  white  lilies  growing, 

A thousand  as  one ; 

The  sweet  ring-dove  cooing, 
His  love  notes  renewing, 

Now  moaning,  now  suing ; 

The  night  is  nigh  gone. 

The  season  excelling, 

In  scented  flowers  smelling, 

To  kind  love  compelling 
Our  hearts  every  one ; 

With  sweet  ballads  moving 
The  maids  we  are  loving, 

Mid  musing  and  roving 
The  night  is  nigh  goue. 


EARLY  SUMMER. 


17 


Of  war  and  fair  women 
The  young  knights  are  dreaming, 
With  bright  breastplates  gleaming, 
And  plumed  helmets  on ; 

The  barbed  steed  neighs  lordly, 

And  shakes  his  mane  proudly, 

For  war-trumpets  loudly 
Say  night  is  nigh  gone. 

I see  the  flags  flowing, 

The  warriors  all  glowing, 

And,  snorting  and  blowing, 

The  steeds  rushing  on ; 

The  lances  are  crashing, 

Out  broad  blades  come  flashing 
Mid  shouting  and  dashing — 

The  night  is  nigh  gone. 

Alexander  Montgomery. 


MORNING  IN  LONDON. 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty : 

This  city  now  doth,  like  a garment,  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning ; silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples 
lie 

Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, 

All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep, 

In  his  first  splendor,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne’er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a calm  so  deep ! 

The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will ; 

Dear  God ! the  very  houses  seem  asleep ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 

William  Words  worth. 


SAXON  SONG  OF  SUMMER. 

Summer  is  a coming  in, 

Loud  sing,  cuckoo; 

Groweth  seed,  and  bloweth  mead, 
And  springeth  the  wood  new. 
Sing,  cuckoo,  cuckoo! 

2 


Ewe  bleateth  after  lamb ; 

Loweth  calf  after  cow ; 

Bullock  starteth,  buck  departeth ; 
Merry  sing,  cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo; 

Well  singeth  the  cuckoo — 

Sing  ever,  stop  never, 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo ; 

Sing,  cuckoo! 

Modern  Yersion.  Anonymous,  about  1250. 


THEY  COME ! THE  MERRY  SUMMER 
MONTHS. 

They  come ! the  merry  summer  months  of 
beauty,  song,  and  flowers ; 

They  come ! the  gladsome  months  that  bring 
thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 

Up,  up,  my  heart ! and  walk  abroad ; fling 
cark  and  care  aside ; 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peace 
ful  waters  glide ; 

Or,  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patri 
archal  tree, 

Scan  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in 
rapt  tranquility. 

The  grass  is  soft,  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful 
to  the  hand ; 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze 
is  sweet  and  bland ; 

The  daisy  and  the  buttercup  are  nodding 
courteously  ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love,  to  bless 
and  welcome  thee : 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks — 
they  now  are  silvery  gray — ■ 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whis- 
pering, “ Be  gay ! ” 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean 
of  yon  sky, 

But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it 
melody : 

Thou  seest  their  glittering  fans  outspread,  all 
gleaming  like  red  gold ; 

And  hark!  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their 
merry  course  they  hold. 


18 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


God  bless  them  all,  those  little  ones,  who,  far 
above  this  earth, 

Can  make  a scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent 
a nobler  mirth. 

Bnt  soft ! mine  ear  upcaught  a sound, — from 
yonder  wood  it  came ! 

The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe 
his  own  glad  name ; — 

Yes,  it  is  he!  the  hermit  bird,  that,  apart 
from  all  his  kind, 

Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft 
western  wind ; 

Cuckoo ! Cuckoo ! he  sings  again, — his  notes 
are  void  of  art ; 

But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the 
deep  founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord ! it  is  a gracious  boon  for  thought- 
crazed  wight  like  me, 

To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath 
this  summer  tree ! 

To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath  their  lit- 
tle souls  away, 

And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of 
youth’s  bright  summer  day, 

When,  rushing  forth  like  untamed  colt,  the 
reckless,  truant  boy 

Wandered  through  greenwoods  all  day  long, 
a mighty  heart  of  joy ! 

I ’m  sadder  now — I have  had  cause ; but  O ! 
I ’m  proud  to  think 

That  each  pure  joy-fount,  loved  of  yore,  I yet 
delight  to  drink ; — 

Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the 
calm,  unclouded  sky, 

Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the 
days  gone  by. 

When  summer’s  loveliness  and  light  fall  round 
me  dark  and  cold, 

l ’ll  bear  indeed  life’s  heaviest  curse, — a heart 
that  hath  waxed  old ! 

William  Motherwell. 


MORNING. 

Hakk — hark ! the  lark  at  heaven’s  gate  sings, 
And  Phoebus  ’gins  arise, 

His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 
On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 


And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 

With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  sweet,  arise ; 

Arise,  arise! 

Shakespeare. 


TO  THE  SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 

That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 

Like  a cloud  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever 
singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 
Of  the  setting  sun, 

O’er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 
Thou  dost  float  and  run ; 

Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  ig  just  begun. 

The  pale,  purple  even 
Melts  around  thy  flight ; 

Like  a star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight, 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I hear  thy  shrill 
delight. 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 

Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 
With  thy  voice  is  loud, 

As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven 
is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 


THE  SKY-LARK.  19 

From  rainbow-clouds  there  flow  not 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 

As  from  thy  presence  showers  a rain  of 

What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

melody. 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 

What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ? what  ignor- 

Like a poet  hidden 

ance  of  pain  ? 

In  the  light  of  thought, 

Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joy ance 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 

Languor  cannot  be : 

To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded 

Shades  of  annoyance 

not: 

Never  come  near  thee : 

Like  a high-born  maiden, 

Thou  lovest,  but  ne’er  knew  love’s  sad  satiety. 

In  a palace  tower, 

Waking,  or  asleep 

Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 

With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows 

Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream ; 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a crys- 

Like a glow-worm  golden, 

tal  stream  ? 

In  a dell  of  dew, 

Scattering  unbeholden 

We  look  before  and  after, 

Its  aerial  hue 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it 

Our  sincerest  laughter 

from  the  view : 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  sad- 

Like a rose  embowered 

dest  thought. 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 

By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these 

If  we  were  things  born 

heavy- wing’d  thieves. 

Not  to  shed  a tear, 

I know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

near. 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 

Rain-awakened  flowers, 

Better  than  all  measures 

All  that  ever  was 

Of  delightful  sound ; 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth 

Better  than  all  treasures 

surpass. 

That  in  books  are  found, 

Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the 

Teach  us  sprite  or  bird 

ground ! 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine ; 

I have  never  heard 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 

That  panted  forth  a flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Such  harmonious  madness 

Chorus  hymeneal. 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 

Or  triumphant  chant, 

The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I am  listen- 

Matched with  thine  would  be  all 

ing  now. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 

A thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hid- 
den want. 

20 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


THE  LARK. 

Bied  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 

Sweet  he  thy  matin  o’er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place : 

O to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud ; 

Love  gives  it  energy — love  gave  it  birth ! 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing — 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 

Thy  lay  is  in  heaven — thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O’er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O’er  moor  and  mountain  green, 

O’er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day ; 
Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow’s  rim, 

Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms, 

Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

O to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

James  Hogg. 


SONG. 

’Tis  sweet  to  hear  the  merry  lark, 

That  bids  a blithe  good-morrow ; 

But  sweeter  to  hark,  in  the  twinkling  dark 
To  the  soothing  song  of  sorrow. 

Oh  nightingale ! What  doth  she  ail  ? 

And  is  she  sad  or  jolly? 

For  ne’er  on  earth  was  sound  of  mirth 
So  like  to  melancholy. 

The  merry  lark,  he  soars  on  high, 

No  worldly  thought  o’ertakes  him  ; 

He  sings  aloud  to  the  clear  blue  sky, 

And  the  daylight  that  awakes  him. 

As  sweet  a lay,  as  loud,  as  gay, 

The  nightingale  is  trilling ; 

With  feeling  bliss,  no  less  than  his, 

Her  little  heart  is  thrilling. 


Yet  ever  and  anon,  a sigh, 

Peers  through  her  lavish  mirth  ; 

For  the  lark’s  bold  song  is  of  the  sky, 
And  hers  is  of  the  earth. 

By  night  and  day,  she  tunes  her  lay, 

To  drive  away  all  sorrow ; 

For  bliss,  alas ! to-night  must  pass, 

And  woe  may  come  to-morrow. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


SONG. 

Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome  day, 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow : 

Sweet  air,  blow  soft ; mount,  lark,  aloft, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind, 
Notes  from  the  lark  I’ll  borrow : 

Bird,  prune  thy  wing ; nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 

Notes  from  them  all  I’ll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  robin  redbreast, 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ; 

And  from  each  hill  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 
Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 

You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 

To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 

Sing  birds,  in  every  furrow. 

Thomas  Hey-wood. 


THE  ANGLERS  TRYSTING  TREE. 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing! 

Meet  the  morn  upon  the  lea ; 

Are  the  emeralds  of  the  spring 
On  the  angler’s  trysting-tree  ? 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me ! 

Are  there  buds  on  our  willow-tree  ? 
Buds  and  birds  on  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Have  you  met  the  honey  bee, 

Circling  upon  rapid  wing, 


ANGLING. 


21 


’Round  the  angler’s  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see ! 

Are  there  bees  at  our  willow-tree? 

Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Are  the  fountains  gushing  free  ? 

Is  the  south  wind  wandering 

Through  the  angler’s  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me ! 

Is  there  wind  up  our  willow-tree  ? 

Wind  or  calm  at  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Wile  us  with  a merry  glee ; 

To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring — 

To  the  angler’s  trysting-tree. 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me ! 

Are  there  flowers  ’neath  our  willow-tree? 
Spring  and  flowers  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

Thomas  Tod  Stoddart. 


UP,  AMARYLLIS! 

Waken,  thou  fair  one!  up,  Amaryllis! 
Morning  so  still  is ; 

Cool  is  the  gale : 

The  rainbow  of  heaven, 

With  its  hues  seven, 

Brightness  hath  given 
To  wood  and  dale. 

Sweet  Amaryllis,  let  me  convey  thee ; 

In  Neptune’s  arms  naught  shall  affray  thee; 
Sleep’s  god  no  longer  power  has  to  stay  thee, 
Over  thy  eyes  and  speech  to  prevail. 

Come  out  a-fishing ; nets  forth  are  carrying ; 
Come  without  tarrying — 

Hasten  with  me. 

Jerkin  and  veil  in — 

Come  for  the  sailing : 

For  trout  and  grayling, 

Baits  will  lay  we. 

Awake,  Amaryllis!  dearest,  awaken; 

Let  me  not  go  forth  by  thee  forsaken ; 

Our  course  among  dolphins  and  sirens  taken, 
Onward  shall  paddle  our  boat  to  the  sea. 


Bring  rod  and  line — bring  nets  for  the  land- 
ing; 

Morn  is  expanding, 

Hasten  away ! 

Sweet ! no  denying, 

Frowning,  or  sighing — 

Could’st  thou  be  trying 
To  answer  me  nay  ? 

Hence,  on  the  shallows,  our  little  boat  leav- 
ing, 

Or  to  the  Sound  where  green  waves  are  heav- 
ing, 

Where  our  true  love  its  first  bond  was  weav- 
ing, 

Causing  to  Thirsis  so  much  dismay. 

Step  in  the  boat,  then ! both  of  us  singing ; 
Love  afresh  springing, 

O’er  us  shall  reign. 

If  the  storm  rages, 

If  it  war  wages, 

Thy  love  assuages 
Terror  and  pain. 

Calm  ’mid  the  billows’  wildest  commotion, 

I would  defy  on  thy  bosom  the  ocean, 

Or  would  attend  thee  to  death  with  devotion 
Sing,  0 ye  sirens,  and  mimic  my  strain ! 

Carl  Michael  Bellmann  (Swedish). 
Translation  of  Mary  Howitt. 


THE  ANGLER. 

On ! the  gallant  fisher’s  life, 

It  is  the  best  of  any  : 

’Tis  full  of  pleasure,  void  of  strife, 
And  ’tis  beloved  by  many : 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys ; 

Only  this 
Lawful  is ; 

For  our  skill 
Breeds  no  ill, 

But  content  and  pleasure. 

Tn  a morning,  up  we  rise, 

Ere  Aurora’s  peeping ; 

Drink  a cup  to  wash  our  eyes, 
Leave  the  sluggard  sleeping ; 


22  POEMS  OF 

NATURE. 

Then  we  go, 

Before  death 

To  and  fro, 

Stops  our  breath : 

With  our  knacks 

Other  joys 

At  our  hacks, 

Are  but  toys, 

To  such  streams 

And  to  be  lamented. 

As  the  Thames, 

John  Chalxhill. 

If  we  have  the  leisure. 

When  we  please  to  walk  abroad 

For  our  recreation; 

VERSES  IN  PRAISE  OF  ANGLING. 

In  the  fields  is  our  abode, 

Full  of  delectation, 

Quivering  fears,  heart-tearing  cares, 

Where,  in  a brook, 

Anxious  sighs,  untimely  tears, 

With  a hook — 

Fly,  fly  to  courts, 

Or  a lake, — 

Fly  to  fond  wordlings’  sports, 

Fish  we  take ; 

Where  strained  sardonic  smiles  are  glosing 

There  we  sit, 

still, 

For  a bit, 

And  grief  is  forced  to  laugh  against  her  will, 

Till  we  fish  entangle. 

Where  mirth ’s  but  mummery, 
And  sorrows  only  real  be. 

We  have  gentles  in  a horn, 

We  have  paste  and  worms  too ; 

Fly  from  our  country  pastimes,  fly, 

We  can  watch  both  night  and  morn, 

Sad  troops  of  human  misery, 

Suffer  rain  and  storms  too ; 

Come,  serene  looks, 

None  do  here 

Clear  as  the  crystal  brooks, 

Use  to  swear : 

Or  the  pure  azured  heaven  that  smiles  to  see 

Oaths  do  fray 

The  rich  attendance  on  our  poverty ; 

Fish  away ; 

Peace  and  a secure  mind, 

We  sit  still, 

Which  all  men  seek,  we  only  find. 

Watch  our  quill  : 

Fishers  must  not  wrangle. 

Abused  mortals ! did  you  know 

Where  joy,  heart’s  ease,  and  comforts  grow, 

If  the  sun’s  excessive  heat 

You’d  scorn  proud  towers, 

Make  our  bodies  swelter, 

And  seek  them  in  these  bowers, 

To  an  osier  hedge  we  get, 

Where  winds,  sometimes,  our  woods  perhaps 

For  a friendly  shelter; 

may  shake, 

Where — in  a dyke, 

But  blustering  care  could  never  tempest  make ; 

Perch  or  pike, 

Nor  murmurs  e’er  come  nigh  us, 

Roach  or  daice, 

Saving  of  fountains  that  glide  by  us. 

We  do  chase, 

Bleak  or  gudgeon, 

Here ’s  no  fantastic  mask  nor  dance, 

Without  grudging; 

But  of  our  kids  that  frisk  and  prance ; 

We  are  still  contented. 

Nor  wars  are  seen, 
Unless  upon  the  green 

Or,  we  sometimes  pass  an  hour 

Two  harmless  lambs  are  butting  one  the  other, 

Under  a green  willow, 

Which  done,  both  bleating  run,  each  to  his 

That  defends  us  from  a shower, 

mother ; 

Making  earth  our  pillow ; 

And  wounds  are  never  found, 

Where  we  may 

Save  what  the  ploughshare  gives  the 

Think  and  pray, 

ground. 

THE  BOBOLINK. 


23 


Here  are  no  entrapping  baits 
To  hasten  to,  too  hasty  fates ; 

Unless  it  be 
The  fond  credulity 

Of  silly  fish,  which  (wordling  like)  still  look 
Upon  the  bait,  but  never  on  the  hook ; 

Nor  envy,  ’less  among 

The  birds,  for  price  of  their  sweet  song. 

Go,  let  the  diving  negro  seek 
For  gems,  hid  in  some  forlorn  creek: 

We  all  pearls  scorn,  • 

Save  what  the  dewy  morn 
Congeals  upon  each  little  spire  of  grass, 
Which  careless  shepherds  beat  down  as  they 
pass; 

And  gold  ne’er  here  appears, 

Save  what  the  yellow  Ceres  bears. 

Bless’d  silent  groves,  oh,  may  you  be, 

For  ever,  mirth’s  best  nursery! 

May  pure  contents 
For  ever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  downs,  these  meads,  these  rocks, 
these  mountains; 

And  peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling 
fountains, 

Which  we  may  every  year 
Meet,  when  we  come  a-fishing  here. 

Sie  Henry  Wotton. 


THE  ANGLER’S  WISH. 

I in  these  flowery  meads  would  be : 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 
I,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice, 

Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love : 

Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty : please  my  mind, 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  washed  off  by  April  showers ; 
Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a song : 

There,  see  a blackbird  feed  her  young, 


Or  a laverock  build  her  nest : 

Here,  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 
Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 
Of  princes’  courts,  I would  rejoice ; 

Or,  with  my  Bryan  and  a book, 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook ; 
There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat ; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day ; 

There  meditate  my  time  away ; 

And  angle  on ; and  beg  to  have 
A quiet  passage  to  a welcome  grave. 

Izaak  Walton. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

Bobolink  ! that  in  the  meadow, 

Or  beneath  the  orchard’s  shadow, 
Keepest  up  a constant  rattle 
Joyous  as  my  children’s  prattle, 
Welcome  to  the  north  again! 
Welcome  to  mine  ear  thy  strain, 
Welcome  to  mine  eye  the  sight 
Of  thy  buff,  thy  black  and  white. 
Brighter  plumes  may  greet  the  sun 
By  the  banks  of  Amazon ; 

Sweeter  tones  may  weave  the  spell 
Of  enchanting  Philomel ; 

But  the  tropic  bird  would  fail, 

And  the  English  nightingale, 

If  we  should  compare  their  worth 
With  thine  endless,  gushing  mirth. 

When  the  ides  of  May  are  past, 
June  and  Summer  nearing  fast, 
While  from  depths  of  blue  above 
Comes  the  mighty  breath  of  love, 
Calling  out  each  bud  and  flower 
With  resistless,  secret  power, — 
Waking  hope  and  fond  desire, 
Kindling  the  erotic  fire, — 

Filling  youths’  and  maidens’  dreams 
Witlt  mysterious,  pleasing  themes; 
Then,  amid  the  sunlight  clear 


24 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


i 


Delightful  visitant ! with  thee 
I hail  the  time  of  flowers, 

And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 
From  birds  among  the  bowers. 


Floating  in  the  fragrant  air, 

Thou  dost  fill  each  heart  with  pleasure 
By  thy  glad  ecstatic  measure. 

A single  note,  so  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a full  heart’s  overflow, 

Forms  the  prelude ; hut  the  strain 
Gives  us  no  such  tone  again, 

For  the  wild  and  saucy  song 
Leaps  and  skips  the  notes  among, 

With  such  quick  and  sportive  play, 
Ne’er  was  madder,  merrier  lay. 

Gayest  songster  of  the  Spring ! 

Thy  melodies  before  me  bring 
"Visions  of  some  dream-built  land, 
Where,  by  constant  zephyrs  fanned, 

I might  walk  the  livelong  day, 
Embosomed  in  perpetual  May. 

Nor  care  nor  fear  thy  bosom  knows ; 
For  thee  a tempest  never  blows ; 

But  when  our  northern  Summer ’s  o’er, 
By  Delaware’s  or  Schuylkill’s  shore 
The  wild  rice  lifts  its  airy  head, 

And  royal  feasts  for  thee  are  spread. 
And  when  the  Winter  threatens  there, 
Thy  tireless  wings  yet  own  no  fear, 

But  hear  thee  to  more  Southern  coasts, 
Far  beyond  the  reach  of  frosts. 

Bobolink ! still  may  thy  gladness 
Take  from  me  all  taints  of  sadness ; 

Fill  my  soul  with  trust  unshaken 
In  that  Being  who  has  taken 
Care  for  every  living  thing, 

In  Summer,  Winter,  Fall  and  Spring. 

Thomas  Hill. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring ! 

Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 
And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 

Hast  thou  a star  to  guide  thy  path,  • 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 


The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood 
To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 

Starts,  thy  most  curious  voice  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 

An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird ! thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 

Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  Winter  in  thy  year ! 

' 

Oh,  could  I fly,  I’d  fly  with  thee ! 

We’d  make,  with  joyful  wing, 

Our  annual  visit  o’er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  Spring. 

John  Logan. 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0 blithe  new-comer ! I have  heard, 

1 hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

0 Cuckoo ! shall  I call  thee  bird, 

Or  but  a wandering  voice  ? 

While  I am  lying  on  the  grass, 

Thy  twofold  shout  I hear  ; 

From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 

At  once  far  off,  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A voice,  a mystery ; 


THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


25 


The  same  that  in  my  school-hoy  days 
I listened  to — that  cry 
Which  made  me  look  a thousand  ways, 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a hope,  a love — 

Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

0 blessed  bird ! the  earth  we  pace, 

Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place, 

That  is  fit  home  for  thee ! 

William  Wokdswoeth. 


THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTIN- 
GALE. 

i. 

The  God  of  Love, — ah  l)enedicite  ! 

How  mighty  and  how  great  a lord  is  he ! 

For  he  of  low  hearts  can  make  high ; of  high 
He  can  make  low,  and  unto  death  bring  nigh ; 
And  hard  hearts,  he  can  make  them  kind  and 
free. 

ii. 

Within  a little  time,  as  hath  been  found, 

He  can  make  sick  folk  whole  and  fresh  and 
sound : 

Them  who  are  whole  in  body  and  in  mind, 
He  can  make  sick  ; bind  can  he  and  unbind 
All  that  he  will  have  bound,  or  have  unbound. 

hi. 

To  tell  his  might  my  wit  may  not  suffice ; 
Foolish  men  he  can  make  them  out  of  wise — 
For  he  may  do  all  that  he  will  devise ; 

Loose  livers  he  can  make  abate  their  vice, 
And  proud  hearts  can  make  tremble  in  a trice. 

IV. 

In  brief,  the  whole  of  what  he  will,  ho  may  ; 
Against  him  dare  not  any  wight  say  nay ; 


To  humble  or  afflict  whome’er  he  will, 

To  gladden  or  to  grieve,  he  hath  like  skill ; 
But  most  his  might  he  sheds  on  the  eve  of 
May. 

v. 

For  every  true  heart,  gentle  heart  and  free, 
That  with  him  is,  or  thinketh  so  to  be, 

Now,  against  May,  shall  have  some  stirring, — 
whether 

To  joy,  or  be  it  to  some  mourning ; never, 

At  other  time,  methinks,  in  like  degree. 

VI. 

For  now,  when  they  may  hear  the  small  birds’ 
song, 

And  see  the  budding  leaves  the  branches 
throng, 

This  unto  their  rememberance  doth  bring 
All  kinds  of  pleasure,  mixed  with  sorrowing ; 
And  longing  of  sweet  thoughts  that  ever  long. 

VII. 

And  of  that  longing  heaviness  doth  come, 
Whence  oft  great  sickness  grows  of  heart  and 
home; 

Sick  are  they  all  for  lack  of  their  desire ; 
And  thus  in  May  their  hearts  are  set  on  fire, 
So  that  they  burn  forth  in  great  martyrdom. 

VIII. 

In  sooth,  I speak  from  feeling ; what  though 
now 

Old  am  I,  and  to  genial  pleasure  slow ; 

Yet  have  I felt  of  sickness  through  the  May, 
Both  hot  and  cold,  and  heart-aches  every 
day,— 

How  hard,  alas ! to  bear,  I only  know. 

IX. 

Such  shaking  doth  the  fever  in  me  keep 
Through  all  this  May,  that  I have  little  sleep ; 
And  also ’t  is  not  likely  unto  me, 

That  any  living  heart  should  sleepy  be, 

In  which  Love’s  dart  its  fiery  point  doth  steep. 

x. 

But  tossing  lately  on  a sleepless  bed, 

I of  a token  thought,  which  lovers  heed : 
How  among  them  it  was  a common  tale, 
That  it  was  good  to  hear  the  nightingale 
Ere  the  vile  cuckoo’s  noto  bo  uttered. 


26 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


XL 

And  then  I thought  anon,  as  it  was  day, 

I gladly  would  go  somewhere  to  essay 
If  I perchance  a nightingale  might  hear ; 

For  yet  had  I heard  none,  of  all  that  year ; 
And  it  was  then  the  third  night  of  the  May. 

XII. 

And  soon  as  I a glimpse  of  day  espied, 

No  longer  would  I in  my  bed  abide ; 

But  straightway  to  a wood,  that  was  hard  by, 
Forth  did  I go,  alone  and  fearlessly, 

And  held  the  pathway  down  by  a brook-side ; 

xm. 

Till  to  a lawn  I came,  all  white  and  green ; 

I in  so  fair  a one  had  never  been. 

The  ground  was  green,  with  daisy  powdered 
over; 

Tall  were  the  flowers,  the  grove  a lofty  cover, 
All  green  and  white ; and  nothing  else  was 
seen. 

XIV. 

There  sat  I down  among  the  fair,  fresh 
flowers, 

And  saw  the  birds  come  tripping  from  their 
bowers, 

"Where  they  had  rested  them  all  night ; and 
they, 

Who  were  so  joyful  at  the  light  of  day, 
Began  to  honor  May  with  all  their  powers. 

xv. 

Well  did  they  know  that  service  all  by  rote ; 
And  there  was  many  and  many  a lovely  note — 
Some,  singing  loud,  as  if  they  had  com- 
plained ; 

Some  with  their  notes  another  manner 
feigned ; 

And  some  did  sing  all  out  with  the  full  throat. 

XVI. 

They  pruned  themselves,  and  made  them- 
selves right  gay, 

Dancing  and  leaping  light  upon  the  spray ; 
And  ever  two  and  two  together  were, 

The  same  as  they  had  chosen  for  the*year, 
Upon  Saint  Valentine’s  returning  day. 


xvn. 

Meanwhile  the  stream,  whose  bank  I sat  upon, 
Was  making  such  a noise  as  it  ran  on, 
Accordant  to  the  sweet  birds’  harmony ; 
Methought  that  it  was  the  best  melody 
Which  ever  to  man’s  ear  a passage  won. 

XVIII. 

And  for  delight,  but  how  I never  wot, 

I in  a slumber  and  a swoon  was  caught, 

Not  all  asleep  and  yet  not  waking  wholly ; 
And  as  I lay,  the  Cuckoo,  bird  unholy, 

Broke  silence,  or  I heard  him  in  my  thought. 

XIX. 

And  that  was  right  upon  a tree  fast  by, 

And  who  was  then  ill  satisfied  but  I ? 

Now  God,  quoth  I,  that  died  upon  the  rood, 
From  thee  and  thy  base  throat  keep  all  that’s 
good; 

Full  little  joy  have  I now  of  thy  cry. 
xx. 

And,  as  I with  the  Cuckoo  thus  ’gan  chide, 
In  the  next  bush  that  was  me  fast  beside, 

I heard  the  lusty  Nightingale  so  sing, 

That  her  clear  voice  made  a loud  rioting, 
Echoing  through  all  the  greenwood  wide. 

XXI. 

Ah ! good  sweet  Nightingale ! for  my  heart’s 
cheer, 

Hence  hast  thou  stayed  a little  while  too 
long; 

For  we  have  had  the  sorry  Cuckoo  here, 

And  she  hath  been  before  thee  with  her 
song; 

Evil  light  on  her ! she  hath  done  me  wrong. 

XXII. 

But  hear  you  now  a wondrous  thing,  I pray ; 
As  long  as  in  that  swooning-fit  I lay, 
Methought  I wist  right  well  what  these  birds 
meant, 

And  had  good  knowing  both  of  their  intent, 
And  of  their  speech,  and  all  that  they  would 
say. 

XXIII. 

The  Nightingale  thus  in  my  hearing  spake : — 
Good  Cuckoo,  seek  some  other  bush  or  brake, 


J 


THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


27 


And,  prithee,  let  us,  that  can  sing,  dwell  here ; 
For  every  wight  eschews  thy  song  to  hear, 
Such  uncouth  singing  verily  dost  thou  make. 


To  speak  of  Love’s  true  servants  in  this  mood; 
For  in  this  world  no  service  is  so  good, 

To  everv  wight  that  gentle  is  of  kind. 


XXIV. 

What ! quoth  she  then,  what  is ’t  that  ails 
thee  now  ? 

It  seems  to  me  I sing  as  well  as  thou ; 

For  mine’s  a song  that  is  both  true  and 
plain, — 

Although  I cannot  quaver  so  in  vain 
As  thou  dost  in  thy  throat,  I wot  not  how. 


All  men  may  understanding  have  of  me, 

But,  Nightingale,  so  may  they  not  of  thee ; 
For  thou  hast  many  a foolish  and  quaint 
cry : — 

Thou  sayst  Osee,  Osee,  then  how  may  I 
Have  knowledge,  I thee  pray,  what  this  may 
be? 

XXVI. 

Ah,  fool!  quoth  she,  wist  thou  not  what  it  is? 
Oft  as  I say  Osee,  Osee,  I wis, 

Then  mean  I,  that  I should  be  wondrous  fain 
That  shamefully  they  one  and  all  were  slain, 
Whoever  against  Love  mean  aught  amiss. 

XXVII. 

And  also  would  I that  they  all  were  dead, 
Who  do  not  think  in  love  their  life  to  lead ; 
For  who  is  loth  the  God  of  Love  to  obey 
Is  only  fit  to  die,  I dare  well  say ; 

And  for  that  cause  Osee  I cry ; take  heed ! 

XXVIII. 

Ay,  quoth  the  Cuckoo,  that  is  a quaint  law — 
That  all  must  love  or  die ; but  I withdraw, 
And  take  my  leave  of  all  such  company, 

For  my  intent  it  neither  is  to  die, 

Nor  ever  while  I live  Love’s  yoke  to  draw. 

XXIX. 

For  lovers,  of  all  folk  that  be  alive, 

The  most  disquiet  have,  and  least  do  thrive ; 
Most  feeling  have  of  sorrow,  woe,  and  care, 
And  the  least  welfare  cometh  to  their  share ; 
What  need  is  there  against  the  truth  to  strive? 

XXX. 

What!  quoth  she,  thou  art  all  out  of  thy  mind, 
That,  in  thy  churlishness,  a cause  canst  find  I 


XXXI. 

For  thereof  comes  all  goodness  and  all  worth ; 
All  gentiless  and  honor  thence  come  forth ; 
Thence  worship  comes,  content,  and  true 
heart’s  pleasure, 

And  full-assured  trust,  joy  without  measure, 
And  jollity,  fresh  cheerfulness,  and  mirth ; 

XXXII. 

And  bounty,  lowliness,  and  courtesy, 

And  seemliness,  and  faithful  company, 

And  dread  of  shame  that  will  not  do  amiss ; 
For  he  that  faithfully  Love’s  servant  is, 
Rather  than  be  disgraced,  would  chuse  to  die. 

XXXIII. 

And  that  tne  very  truth  it  is  which  I 
Now  say, — in  such  belief  I ’ll  live  and  die ; 
And,  Cuckoo,  do  thou  so,  by  my  advice. 
Then,  quoth  she,  let  me  never  hope  for  bliss, 
If  with  that  counsel  I do  e’er  comply. 

xxxiv. 

Good  Nightingale!  thou  speakest  wondrous 
fair, 

Yet,  for  all  that,  the  truth  is  found  elsewhere ; 
For  Love  in  young  folk  is  but  rage,  I wis, 
And  Love  in  old  folk  a great  dotage  is ; 

Who  most  it  useth,  him  ’t  will  most  impair. 

XXXV. 

For  thereof  come  all  contraries  to  gladness; 
Thence  sickness  comes,  and  overwhelming 
sadness, 

Mistrust  and  jealousy,  despite,  debate, 
Dishonor,  shame,  envy  importunate, 

Pride,  anger,  mischief,  poverty,  and  madness. 

xxxvi. 

Loving  is  aye  an  office  of  despair, 

And  one  thing  is  therein  which  is  not  fair ; 
For  whoso  gets  of  love  a little  bliss, 

Unless  it  always  stay  with  him,  I wis 
He  may  full  soon  go  with  an  old  man’s  hair. 

xxxvn. 

And  therefore,  Nightingale!  do  thou  keep 
nigh: 

For,  trust  me  well,  in  spite  of  thy  quaint  cry, 


28 


. POEMS  OF  NATUKE. 


If  long  time  from  thy  mate  thou  he,  or  far, 
Thou ’It  he  as  others  that  forsaken  are ; 

Then  shalt  thou  raise  a clamor  as  do  I. 

XXXVIII. 

Fie,  quoth  she,  on  thy  name,  Bird  ill  beseen ! 
The  God  of  Love  afflict  thee  with  all  teen. 
For  thou  art  worse  than  mad  a thousand-fold ; 
For  many  a one  hath  virtues  manifold, 

Who  had  been  naught,  if  Love  had  never  been. 

XXXIX. 

For  evermore  his  servants  Love  amendeth, 
And  he  from  every  blemish  them  defendeth ; 
And  maketh  them  to  burn,  as  in  a fire, 

In  loyalty  and  worshipful  desire ; 

And,  when  it  likes  him,  joy  enough  them 
sendeth. 

XL. 

Thou  Nightingale ! the  Cuckoo  said,  be  still, 
For  Love  no  reason  hath  but  his  own  will; — 
For  to  th’  untrue  he  oft  gives  ease  and  joy; 
True  lovers  doth  so  bitterly  annoy, 

He  lets  them  perish  through  that  grievous  ill. 

XLI. 

With  such  a master  would  I never  be, 

For  he,  in  sooth,  is  blind,  and  may  not  see, 
And  knows  not  when  he  hurts  and  when  he 
heals ; 

Within  his  court  full  seldom  Truth  avails, 

So  diverse  in  his  wilfulness  is  he. 

XLII. 

Then  of  the  Nightingale  did  I take  note — 
How  from  her  inmost  heart  a sigh  she  brought, 
And  said : Alas  that  ever  I was  born ! 

Not  one  word  have  I now,  I’m  so  forlorn : 
And  with  that  word,  she  into  tears  burst  out. 

XLIII. 

Alas,  alas ! my  very  heart  will  break, 

Quoth  she,  to  hear  this  churlish  bird  thus 
speak 

Of  Love,  and  of  his  holy  services ; 

Now,  God  of  Love!  thou  help  me  in  some 
wise, 

That  vengeance  on  this  Cuckoo  I may  wreak. 


XLIV. 

And  so,  methought,  I started  up  anon, 

And  to  the  brook  I ran  and  got  a stone, 
Which  at  the  Cuckoo  hardily  I cast, 

That  he  for  dread  did  fly  away  full  fast; 

And  glad,  in  sooth,  was  I when  he  was  gone. 

XLV. 

And  as  he  flew,  the  Cuckoo,  ever  and  aye, 
Kept  crying:  “Farewell! — farewell,  Popin- 
jay!” 

As  if  in  scornful  mockery  of  me ; 

And  on  I hunted  him  from  tree  to  tree, 

Till  he  was  far,  all  out  of  sight,  away. 

XLVI. 

Then  straightway  came  the  Nightingale  to 
me, 

And  said : Forsooth,  my  friend,  do  I thank 
thee, 

That  thou  vrert  near  to  rescue  me ; and  now 
Unto  the  God  of  Love  I make  a vow, 

That  all  this  May  I will  thy  songstress  be. 

XLVII. 

Well  satisfied,  I thanked  her ; and  she  said, 
By  this  mishap  no  longer  be  dismayed, 
Though  thou  the  Cuckoo  heard,  ere  thou 
heard’st  me : 

Yet  if  I live  it  shall  amended  be, 

When  next  May  comes,  if  I am  not  afraid. 

XLVIII. 

And  one  thing  will  I counsel  thee  also. 

The  Cuckoo  trust  not,  thou,  nor  his  Love’s 
saw; 

All  that  he  said  is  an  outrageous  lie. 

Nay,  nothing  shall  me  bring  thereto,  quoth  I, 
For  Love,  and  it  hath  done  me  mighty  woe. 

XLIX. 

Yea,  hath  it?  Use,  quoth  she,  this  medicine  : 
This  May-time,  every  day  before  thou  dine, 
Go  look  on  the  fresh  daisy ; then  say  I, 
Although,  for  pain,  thou  mayst  be  like  to  die, 
Thou  wilt  be  eased,  and  less  wilt  droop  and 
pine. 

L. 

And  mind  always  that  thou  be  good  and  true, 
And  I will  sing  one  song,  of  many  new, 


THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


29 


For  love  of  thee,  as  loud  as  I may  cry. 

And  then  did  she  begin  this  song  full  high, 

“ Beshrew  all  them  that  are  in  love  untrue.” 

LI. 

And  soon  as  she  had  sung  it  to  an  end, 

Now  farewell,  quoth  she,  for  I hence  must 
wend; 

And,  God  of  Love,  that  can  right  well  and 
may, 

Send  unto  thee  as  mickle  joy  this  day, 

As  ever  he  to  lover  yet  did  send. 

LII. 

Thus  takes  the  Nightingale  her  leave  of  me ; 
I pray  to  God  with  her  always  to  be, 

And  joy  of  love  to  send  her  evermore ; 

And  shield  us  from  the  Cuckoo  and  her  lore, 
For  there  is  not  so  false  a bird  as  she. 

LIII. 

Forth  then  she  flew,  the  gentle  Nightingale, 
To  all  the  birds  that  lodged  within  that  dale, 
And  gathered  each  and  all  into  one  place, 
And  them  besought  to  hear  her  doleful  case ; 
And  thus  it  was  that  she  began  her  tale. 

LIV. 

The  Cuckoo, — ’t  is  not  well  that  I should 
hide 

How  she  and  I did  each  the  other  chide, 

And  without  ceasing,  since  it  was  daylight ; 
And  now  I pray  you  all  to  do  me  right 
Of  that  false  bird,  whom  Love  cannot  abide. 

LV. 

Then  spake  one  bird,  and  full  assent  all  gave, 
This  matter  asketh  counsel  good  as  grave ; 
For  birds  we  are — all  here  together  brought; 
And,  in  good  sooth,  the  Cuckoo  here  is  not ; 
And  therefore  we  a Parliament  will  have. 

LVI. 

And  thereat  shall  the  Eagle  be  our  Lord, 
And  other  Peers  whose  names  are  on  record. 
A summons  to  the  Cuckoo  shall  be  sent, 

And  judgment  there  bo  given;  or,  that  intent 
Failing,  we  finally  shall  make  accord. 

Lvn. 

And  all  this  shall  be  done,  without  a nay, 
The  morrow  after  Saint  Valentine’s  day, 


Under  a maple  that  is  well  beseen 

Before  the  chamber-window  of  the  Queen, 

At  Woodstock,  on  the  meadow  green  and 
gay. 

lviii. 

She  thanked  them ; and  then  her  leave  she 
took, 

And  flew  into  a hawthorn  by  that  brook ; 

And  there  she  sat  and  sung,  upon  that  tree, 

“For  term  of  life  Love  shall  have  hold  of 
me,” — 

So  loudly,  that  I with  that  song  awoke. 


Unlearned  Book  and  rude,  as  well  I know, — 
For  beauty  thou  hast  none,  nor  eloquence, — 
Who  did  on  thee  the  hardiness  bestow 
To  appear  before  my  Lady?  But  a sense 
Thou  surely  hast  of  her  benevolence, 
Whereof  her  hourly  bearing  proof  doth  give ; 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Alas,  poor  Book ! for  thy  unworthiness 
To  show  to  her  some  pleasant  meanings,  writ 
In  winning  words,  since  through  her  genti- 
less 

Thee  she  accepts  as  for  her  service  fit ! 

Oh ! it  repents  me  I have  neither  wit 
Nor  leisure  unto  thee  more  worth  to  give ; 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Beseech  her  meekly  with  all  lowliness, 
Though  I be  far  from  her  I reverence, 

To  think  upon  my  truth  and  steadfastness ; 
And  to  abridge  my  sorrow’s  violence 
Caused  by  the  wish,  as  knows  your  sapience, 
She  of  her  liking  proof  to  me  would  give  ; 
For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

l’envoy. 

Pleasure’s  Aurora,  Day  of  gladsomeness ! 
Luna  by  night,  with  heavenly  influence 
Illumined!  root  of  beauty  and  goodness! 
Write,  and  allay,  by  your  beneficence, 

My  sighs  breathed  forth  in  silence, — comfort 
give! 

Since  of  all  good  you  are  the  best  alive. 

Geoffrey  Chaucer. 
Version  of  William  Wordsworth. 


30  POEMS  OF  NATURE 


SONG. 

See,  0 see ! 

How  every  tree, 

Every  bower, 

Every  flower, 

A new  life  gives  to  others’  joys ; 
While  that  I 

| While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers 
! Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 

Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers, 
Art  sole  in  thy  employment : 

] A life,  a presence  like  the  air, 

Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 

' Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair — 
Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

Grief-stricken  lie, 

Nor  can  meet 
With  any  sweet 
Bnt  what  faster  mine  destroys. 

What  are  all  the  senses’  pleasures, 
When  the  mind  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Hear,  0 hear ! 

How  sweet  and  clear 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel-trees, 

That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 

There  ! where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 

That  cover  him  all  over. 

The  nightingale 
And  water’s  fall 
In  concert  join  for  others’  ear  ; 

While  to  me, 

For  harmony, 

Every  air 
Echoes  despair, 

And  every  drop  provokes  a tear. 

What  are  all  the  senses’  pleasures, 
When  the  soul  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Lord  Bristol. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives — 

A brother  of  the  dancing  leaves — 

Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 
Pours  forth  a song  in  gushes ; 

As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked,  and  treated  with  disdain, 

The  voiceless  form  he  chose  to  feign, 

While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

William  Wordsworth. 

THE  GREEN  LINNET. 

THE  BLACK  COCK. 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs,  that  shed 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 
With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread, 
Of  Spring’s  unclouded  weather — 

In  this  sequestered  nook,  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat ! 

And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 
My  last  year’s  friends  together. 

Good-morrow  to  thy  sable  beak, 

And  glossy  plumage,  dark  and  sleek  ; 
Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  eye — 
Cock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy ! 

I see  thee  slowly  cowering  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silver  dew, 

That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air 
Like  casement  of  my  lady  fair. 

One  have  I marked,  the  happiest  guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest : 

Hail  to  thee,  far  above  the  rest 
In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion ! 

Thou,  Linnet ! in  thy  green  array, 
Presiding  spirit  here  to-day, 

Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May, 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

A maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower, 

Who,  peeping  from  her  early  bower, 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  with  simple  wile, 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 

The  rarest  things,  to  light  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth,  and  break  away. 

ARETHUSA. 


31 


One  fleeting  moment  of  delight 
I warmed  me  in  her  cheering  sight ; 

And  short,  I ween,  the  time  will  be 
That  I shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 

Through  Snowdon’s  mist,  red  beams  the  day ; 
The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay  ; 

The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring ; 

Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

Joanna  Baillie. 


TO  SONG-BIRDS  ON  A SUNDAY. 

Silence,  all ! ye  winged  choir ; 

Let  not  yon  Right  Reverend  sire 
Hear  your  happy  symphony : 

’Tis  too  good  for  such  as  he. 

On  the  day  of  rest  divine, 

He  poor  townsfolk  would  confine 
In  their  crowded  streets  and  lanes, 
Where  they  cannot  hear  your  strains. 

All  the  week  they  drudge  away, 
Having  but  one  holiday — 

No  more  time  for  you,  than  that — 
Unlike  bishops,  rich  and  fat. 

Utter  not  your  cheerful  sounds, 
Therefore,  in  the  bishop’s  grounds ; 
Make  him  melody  no  more, 

Who  denies  you  to  the  poor. 

Linnet,  hist ! and  blackbird,  hush  ! 
Throstle,  be  a songless  thrush  ; 
Nightingale  and  lark,  be  mute  ; 

Never  sing  to  such  a brute. 

Robin,  at  the  twilight  dim, 

Never  let  thine  evening  hymn — 

Bird  of  red  and  ruthful  breast — 

Lend  the  bishop’s  port  a zest. 

Soothe  not,  birds,  his  lonesome  hours, 
Keeping  us  from  fields  and  flowers, 
Who  to  pen  us  tries,  instead, 

’Mong  the  intramural  dead. 


Only  let  the  raven  croak 
At  him  from  the  rotten  oak  ; 

Let  the  magpie  and  the  jay 
Chatter  at  him  on  his  way. 

And  when  he  to  rest  has  laid  him, 

Let  his  ears  the  screech-owl  harry ; 
And  the  night-jar  serenade  him 
With  a proper  charivari. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ARETHUSA. 

Aretkijsa  arose 
From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag 
With  many  a jag, 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks 
With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams  ; — 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams : 
And,  gliding  and  springing, 

She  went,  ever  singing 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep  ; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 

With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook ; 
And  opened  a chasm 
In  the  rocks ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind, 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow  ; 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 
Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below : 

The  beard  and  the  hair 
Of  the  river-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent’s  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 


32  POEMS  OF 

NATURE. 

Of  the  fleet  nymph’s  flight 

At  noon-tide  they  flow 

To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

Through  the  woods  below, 

“ Oh,  save  me ! Oh,  guide  me ! 

And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 
And  at  night  they  sleep 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 

In  the  rocking  deep 

For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair ! ” 

Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore ; — 

The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 

In  the  azure  sky, 

And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 

When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

And  under  the  water 

Peecy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

The  Earth’s  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a sunny  beam ; 

Behind  her  descended 

THE  FOUNTAIN-. 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream. 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Like  a gloomy  stain 

Full  of  light, 

On  the  emerald  main, 

Leaping  and  flashing 

Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

From  morn  till  night ; 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

Into  the  moonlight, 

A dove  to  its  ruin 

Whiter  than  snow, 

Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Waving  so  flower-like, 

Under  the  bowers 
Where  the  Ocean  powers 

When  the  winds  blow ! 
Into  the  starlight, 

Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones ; 

Rushing  in  spray, 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Happy  at  midnight — 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 

Happy  by  day ! 

Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones  ; 

Ever  in  motion, 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 

Which  amid  the  streams 

Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Weave  a net-work  of  colored  light  ; 

Never  aweary ; 

And  under  the  caves, 
Where  the  shadowy  waves 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 

Are  as  green  as  the  forest’s  night  — 

Still  seeming  best, 

Outspeeding  the  shark, 

Upward  or  downward, 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 

Motion  thy  rest ; 

Under  the  ocean  foam ; 

Full  of  a nature 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Nothing  can  tame, 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 

Changed  every  moment — 

They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

Ever  the  same 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 

In  Enna’s  mountains, 

Ceaseless  content, 

Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Darkness  or  sunshine 

Like  friends  once  parted, 

Thy  element ; 

Grown  single-hearted, 

Glorious  fountain  1 

They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

Let  my  heart  be 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

From  their  cradles  steep 

Upward,  like  thee ! 

In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

Jakes  Bussell  Lowell. 

LITTLE  STREAMS. 


33 


LITTLE  STREAMS. 

Little  streams  are  light  and  shadow. 
Flowing  through  the  pasture  meadow, 
Flowing  by  the  green  way-side, 

Through  the  forest  dim  and  wide, 

Through  the  hamlet  still  and  small — 

By  the  cottage,  by  the  hall, 

By  the  ruin’d  abbey  still ; 

Turning  here  and  there  a mill, 

Bearing  tribute  to  the  river — 

Little  streams,  I love  you  ever. 

Summer  music  is  there  flowing — 

Flowering  plants  in  them  are  growing ; 
Happy  life  is  in  them  all, 

Creatures  innocent  and  small ; 

Little  birds  come  down  to  drink, 

Fearless  of  their  leafy  brink ; 

Noble  trees  beside  them  grow, 

Glooming  them  with  branches  low ; 

And  between,  the  sunshine,  glancing, 

In  their  little  waves,  is  dancing. 

Little  streams  have  flowers  a many, 

Beautiful  and  fair  as  any ; 

Typha  strong,  and  green  bur-reed  ; 
Willow-herb,  with  cotton-seed ; 

Arrow-head,  with  eye  of  jet ; 

And  the  water-violet. 

There  the  flowering-rush  you  meet, 

And  the  plumy  meadow-sweet ; 

And,  in  places  deep  and  stilly, 

Marble-like,  the  water-lily. 

Little  streams,  their  voices  cheery, 

Sound  forth  welcomes  to  the  weary  • 

Flowing  on  from  day  to  day, 

Without  stint  and  without  stay ; 

Here,  upon  their  flowery  bank, 

In  the  old  time  pilgrims  drank — 

Here  have  seen,  as  now,  pass  by, 

King-fisher,  and  dragon-fly; 

Those  bright  things  that  have  their  dwelling, 
Where  the  little  streams  are  welling. 

Down  in  valleys  green  and  lowly, 

Murmuring  not  and  gliding  slowly ; 

Up  in  mountain-hollows  wild, 

3 


Fretting  like  a peevish  child ; 

Through  the  hamlet,  where  all  day 
In  their  waves  the  children  play ; 

Running  west,  or  running  east, 

Doing  good  to  man  and  beast — 

Always  giving,  weary  never, 

Little  streams,  I love  you  ever. 

Mary  Ho  with 


THE  WATER!  THE  WATER! 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

The  joyous  brook  for  me, 

That  tuneth  through  the  quiet  night 
Its  ever-living  glee. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  sleepless,  merry  heart, 

Which  gurgles  on  unstintedly, 

And  loveth  to  impart, 

To  all  around  it,  some  small  measure 
Of  its  own  most  perfect  pleasure. 

The  Water ! the  Water ! 

The  gentle  stream  for  me, 

That  gushes  from  the  old  gray  stone, 
Beside  the  alder-tree. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  ever-bubbling  spring 
I loved  and  looked  on  while  a child, 

In  deepest  wondering, — 

And  asked  it  whence  it  came  and  went, 
And  when  its  treasures  would  be  spent. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

The  merry,  wanton  brook 
That  bent  itself  to  pleasure  me, 

Like  mine  old  shepherd  crook. 

The  Water ! the  Water ! 

That  sang  so  sweet  at  noon, 

And  sweeter  still  all  night,  to  win 
Smiles  from  the  pale,  proud  moon, 
And  from  the  little  fairy  faces 
That  gleam  in  heaven’s  remotest  places. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

The  dear  and  blessed  thing, 

That  all  day  fed  the  little  flowers 
On  its  banks  blossoming. 


34 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  murmured  in  my  ear 
Hymns  of  a saint-like  purity, 

That  angels  well  might  hear, 

And  whisper  in  the  gates  of  heaven, 
How  meek  a pilgrim  had  been  shriven. 

The  Water!  the  Water ! 

Where  I have  shed  salt  tears, 

In  loneliness  and  friendliness, 

A thing  of  tender  years. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

Where  I have  happy  been, 

And  showered  upon  its  bosom  flowers 
Culled  from  each  meadow  green ; 

And  idly  hoped  my  life  would  be 
So  crowned  by  love’s  idolatry. 

The  Water ! the  Water ! 

My  heart  yet  burns  to  think 
How  cool  thy  fountain  sparkled  forth, 
For  parched  lip  to  drink. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

Of  mine  own  native  glen — 

The  gladsome  tongue  I oft  have  heard, 
But  ne’er  shall  hear  again, 

Though  fancy  fills  my  ear  for  aye 
With  sounds  that  live  so  far  away ! 

The  Water!  the  Water ! 

The  mild  and  glassy  wave, 

Upon  whose  broomy  banks  I ’ve  longed 
To  find  my  silent  grave. 

The  Water ! the  Water! 

O,  blest  to  me  thou  art ! 

Thus  sounding  in  life’s  solitude 
The  music  of  my  heart, 

And  filling  it,  despite  of  sadness, 

With  dreamings  of  departed  gladness. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

The  mournful,  pensive  tone 
That  whispered  to  my  heart  how  soon 
This  weary  life  was  done. 

The  Water!  the  Water! 

That  rolled  so  bright  and  free, 

And  bade  me  mark  how  beautiful 
Was  its  soul’s  purity ; 

And  how  it  glanced  to  heaven  its  wave, 
As,  wandering  on,  it  sought  its  grave. 

William  Motherwell. 


SONG  OF  THE  BROOK. 

I come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern  ; 
I make  a sudden  sally 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges ; 

By  twenty  thorps,  a little  town, 

And  half  a hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip’s  farm  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

I chatter  over  stony  ways, 

In  little  sharps  and  trebles ; 

I bubble  into  eddying  bays, 

I babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a curve  my  banks  I fret 
By  many  a field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I chatter,  chatter,  as  I flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

I wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a foamy  flake 
Upon  me,  as  I travel, 

With  many  a silvery  waterbreak 
Above  the  golden  gravel ; 

Andr  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I go  on  for  ever. 

I steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots ; 

I slide  by  hazel  covers ; 

I move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 
That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 


NATURE.  35 

I slip,  I slide,  I gloom,  I glance, 

And  flowers  azure,  black  and  streaked  with 

Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

gold, 

I make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

And  nearer  to  the  river’s  trembling  edge, 
There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 

with  white ; 

I linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge 

I loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 

And  out  again  I curve  and  flow 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 
With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery 

To  join  the  brimming  river; 

light ; 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 

But  I go  on  for  ever. 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

THE  QUESTION. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I made  a nosegay,  bound  in  such  a way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural 
bowers 

I dreamed  that,  as  I wandered  by  the  way, 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 

Bare  Winter  was  changed  suddenly  to  Spring, 

Within  my  hand — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 

And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 

I hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I had  come, 

Mixed  with  the  sound  of  waters  murmuring, 

That  I might  there  present  it!  Oh  to  whom? 

Along  a shelvy  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

Under  a copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 
Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

, 

But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest 
in  a dream. 

NATURE. 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 

The  bubbling  brook  doth  leap  when  I come  by, 

Daisies — those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 

Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call ; 

The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets ; 

The  bir£s  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is 

Faint  oxlips;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose 

nigh, 

birth 

For  I am  known  to  them,  both  great  and 

The  sod  scarce  heaved ; and  that  tall  flower 

small. 

that  wets 

The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hill-side  grows 

Its  mother’s  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 

Expects  me  there  when  Spring  its  bloom  has 

When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate’s  voice,  it 

given; 

hears. 

And  many  a tree  and  bush  my  wanderings 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  bush-eglantine, 

knows, 

And  e’en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  hea- 

Green cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colored 

ven  ; 

May; 

For  he  who  with  his  Maker  walks  aright, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  caps  whose 

Shall  be  their  lord  as  Adam  was  before ; 

wine 

His  ear  shall  catch  each  sound  with  new  de- 

Was the  bright  dew  yet  drained  not  by  the 

light, 

day; 

Each  object  wear  the  dress  that  then  it  wore; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

And  he,  as  when  erect  in  soul  he  stood, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves  wandering 

Hear  from  his  Father’s  lips  that  all  is  good. 

astray ; 

Jones  Very.  . 

86 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE. 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies ; 

Let  them  live  upon  their  praises ; 
Long  as  there ’s  a sun  that  sets, 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory ; 
Long  as  there  are  violets, 

They  will  have  a place  in  story : 
There ’s  a flower  that  shall  he  mine, 
’Tis  the  little  Celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 
For  the  finding  of  a star ; 

Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go, 
Men  that  keep  a mighty  rout ! 

I ’m  as  great  as  they,  I trow, 

Since  the  day  I found  thee  out, 
Little  flower ! — I ’ll  make  a stir, 

Like  a sage  astronomer. 

Modest,  yet  withal  an  elf 
Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself; 

Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met, 
I have  seen  thee,  high  and  low, 
Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 
’T  was  a face  I did  not  know ; 

Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I may, 
Fifty  greetings  in  a day. 

Ere  a leaf  is  on  a hush, 

In  the  time  before  the  thrush 
Has  a thought  about  her  nest, 

Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a call, 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 
Like  a careless  prodigal ; 

Telling  tales  about  the  sun, 

When  we ’ve  little  warmth,  or  none. 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood ! 
Travel  with  the  multitude : 

Never  heed  them ; I aver 
That  they  all  are  wanton  wooers ; 
But  the  thrifty  cottager, 

Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 

Joys  to  spy  thee  near  at  home ; 
Spring  is  coming,  thou  art  come ! 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit, 
Kindly,  unassuming  spirit ! 


Careless  of  thy  neighborhood, 

Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood, 

In  the  lane ; — there ’s  not  a place, 
Howsoever  mean  it  be, 

But  ’tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

HI  befall  the  yellow  flowers, 

Children  of  the  flaring  Hours ! 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen, 

Whether  we  will  see  or  no ; 

Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien ; 

They  have  done  as  worldlings  do, 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine, 
Little,  humble  Celandine. 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth, 
Ill-requited  upon  earth ; 

Herald  of  a mighty  band, 

Of  a joyous  train  ensuing; 

Serving  at  my  heart’s  command, 

Tasks  that  are  no  tasks  renewing, 

I will  sing,  as  doth  behoove, 

Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I love ! 

William  Wordsworth, 


TO  VIOLETS. 

Welcome,  maids  of  honor, 

You  do  bring 
In  the  Spring, 

And  wait  upon  her. 

She  has  virgins  many, 

Fresh  and  fair ; 

Yet  you  are 

More  sweet  than  any. 

Y’  are  the  Maiden  Posies, 

And  so  graced, 

To  be  placed, 

Tore  damask  roses. 

Yet  though  thus  respected, 

By  and  by 
Ye  do  lie, 

Poor  girls,  neglected. 

Robert  IIerbick. 


FLOWERS. 


37 


TO  PRIMROSES, 

FILLED  WITH  MORNING  DEW. 

Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ? Carf  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 

Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teemed  her  refreshing  dew  ? 

Alas ! ye  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a flower ; 

Nor  felt  th’  unkind 
Breath  of  a blasting  wind ; 

Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years ; 

Or  warped,  as  we, 

Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a tongue. 

Speak,  whimpering  younglings,  and  make 
known 

The  reason  why 
Ye  droop  and  weep. 

Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 

Or  childish  lullaby  ? 

Or,  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet? 

Or  brought  a kiss 

From  that  sweetheart  to  this  ? 

No,  no;  this  sorrow,  shown 
By  your  tears  shed, 

Would  have  this  lecture  read: — 
“That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears 
brought  forth.” 

Robert  Herrick. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 

Faib  pledges  of  a fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What ! were  ye  born  to  be 
An  hour  or  half’s  delight, 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 


’Tis  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth, 
Merely  to  show  your  worth, 

And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne’er  so  brave; 
And,  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you  awhile,  they  glide, 

Into  the  grave. 

Robert  Herrick. 


TO  DAFFODILS. 

Fair  daffodils!  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon ; 

As  yet  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attained  his  noon : 

Stay,  stay 

Until  the  hastening  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song ; 

And,  having  prayed  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a Spring; 

As  quick  a growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you,  or  any  thing : 

We  die, 

As  your  hours  do ; and  dry 
Away 

Like  to  the  summer’s  rain, 

Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 
Ne’er  to  be  found  again. 

Robert  Herrick. 


DAFFODILS. 

I wandered,  lonely  as  a cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o’er  vales  and  hills, 
When  all  at  once  I saw  a crowd — 

A host  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Flutt’ring  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a bay : 


88 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Ten  thousand  saw  I,  at  a glance, 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  hut  they 
Outdid  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee : 

A poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a jocund  company ; 

I gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 
What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought: 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I lie, 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude. 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

WlILLAM  W OKDS'W OLTH. 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

Darlings  of  the  forest ! 

Blossoming,  alone, 

When  Earth’s  grief  is  sorest 
For  her  jewels  gone — 

Ere  the  last  snow-drift  melts,  your  tender 
buds  have  blown. 

Tinged  with  color  faintly, 

Like  the  morning  sky, 

Or,  more  pale  and  saintly, 

Wrapped  in  leaves  ye  lie — 

Even  as  children  sleep  in  faith’s  simplicity. 

There  the  wild  wood-robin, 

Hymns  your  solitude ; 

And  the  rain  comes  sobbing 
Through  the  budding  wood, 

While  the  low  south  wind  sighs,  but  dare  not 
be  more  rude. 

Were  your  pure  lips  fashioned 
Out  of  air  and  dew — 

Starlight  unimpassioned, 

Dawn’s  most  tender  hue, 

And  scented  by  the  woods  that  gathered 
sweets  for  you  ? 

Fairest  and  most  lonely, 

From  the  world  apart; 

Made  for  beauty  only, 


Veiled  from  Nature’s  heart 
With  such  unconscious  grace  as  makes  the 
dream  of  Art ! 

Were  not  mortal  sorrow 
An  immortal  shade, 

Then  would  I to-morrow 
Such  a flower  be  made, 

And  live  in  the  dear  woods  where  my  lost 
childhood  played. 

Bose  Terey. 

THE  RHODORA. 

LINES  OX  BEING  ASKED,  WHENCE  IS  THE 
FLOWER  ? 

Ix  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  soli- 
tudes, 

I found  the  fresh  Rhodora  in  the  woods 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook : 
The  purple  petals  fallen  in  the  pool 
Made  the  black  waters  with  their  beauty 
gay— 

Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to 
cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his 
array. 

Rhodora ! if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  marsh  and  sky 
Dear,  tell  them,  that  if  eyes  were  made  for 
seeing, 

Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wert  there,  O,  rival  of  the  rose ! 
I never  thought  to  ask ; I never  knew, 

But  in  my  simple  ignorance  suppose 
The  selfsame  Power  that  brought  me  there, 
brought  you. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 


TO  A MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

OX  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH 
IN  APRIL  1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou’s  met  me  in  an  evil  hour ; 

For  I maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 
Thy  slender  stem : 

To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 
Thou  bonnie  gem. 


THE  DAISY. 


Alas ! it ’s  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 

The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet, 

Bending  thee  ’mang  the  dewy  weet 
Wi’  speckled  breast, 

TV  hen  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  hitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 

Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 
Amid  the  storm — 

Scarce  reared  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt’ring  woods  and  wa’s  maun 
shield ; 

But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 
O’  clod  or  stane, 

Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 

Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread, 

Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 
In  humble  guise ; 

But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 

Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 

By  love’s  simplicity  betrayed, 

And  guileless  trust, 

Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled,  is  laid 
Low  i’  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  hard, 

On  life’s  rough  ocean  luckless  starred ; 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  eard 
Of  prudent  lore, 

Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o’er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 

Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 
To  misery’s  brink, 

Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 
He,  ruined,  sink  I 


Even  thou  who  mourn’st  the  Daisy’s  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 

Stern  ruin’s  ploughshare  drives  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 

Till  crushed  beneath  the  furrow’s  weight, 
Shall  be  thy  doom ! 

Kobeet  Bubns. 


TO  A DAISY. 

There  is  a flower,  a little  flower 
With  silver  crest  and  golden  eye, 

That  welcomes  every  changing  hour, 
And  weathers  every  sky. 

The  prouder  beauties  of  the  field, 

In  gay  hut  quick  succession  shine  ; 

Bace  after  race  their  honors  yield, 

They  flourish  and  decline. 

But  this  small  flower,  to  Nature  dear, 
While  moons  and  stars  their  courses  run, 
Enwreathes  the  circle  of  the  year, 
Companion  of  the  sun. 

It  smiles  upon  the  lap  of  May, 

To  sultry  August  spreads  its  charm, 
Lights  pale  October  on  his  way, 

And  twines  December’s  arm. 

The  purple  heath  and  golden  broom, 

On  moory  mountains  catch  the  gale ; 
O’er  lawns  the  lily  sheds  perfume, 

The  violet  in  the  vale. 

But  this  hold  floweret  climbs  the  hill, 
Hides  in  the  forest,  haunts  the  glen, 
Plays  on  the  margin  of  the  rill, 

Peeps  round  the  fox’s  den. 

Within  the  garden’s  cultured  round 
It  shares  the  sweet  carnation’s  bed ; 

And  blooms  on  consecrated  ground 
In  honor  of  the  dead. 

The  lambkin  crops  its  crimson  gem  ; 

The  wild  bee  murmurs  on  its  breast ; 
The  blue-fly  bends  its  pensile  stem, 

Light  o’er  the  skylark’s  nest. 


40 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


’Tis  Flora’s  page — in  every  place, 

In  every  season,  fresh  and  fair  ; 

It  opens  with  perennial  grace, 

And  blossoms  every  where. 

On  waste  and  woodland,  rock  and  plain, 
Its  humble  buds  unheeded  rise ; 

The  rose  has  but  a summer  reign ; 

The  Daisy  never  dies ! 

James  Montgomery. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this : 

That  from  every  thing  I saw 
I could  some  instruction  draw, 

And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sigh  . 

By  the  murmur  of  a spring, 

Or  the  least  bough’s  rustelling ; 

By  a daisy  whose  leaves  spread 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed ; 

Or  a shady  bush  or  tree, 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 

Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man. 

George  Wither. 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I went, 

From  hill  to  hill,  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent — 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy ; 

But  now  my  own  delights  I make, 

My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake, 

And  gladly  Nature’s  love  partake, 

Of  thee,  sweet  Daisy ! 

Thee,  Winter  in  the  garland  wears 
That  thinly  decks  his  few  gray  hairs  ; 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs, 
That  she  may  sun  thee ; 

Whole  summer-fields  are  thine  by  right ; 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  wight ! 

Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 
When  rains  are  on  thee. 

Iu  shoals  and  bands,  a morrice  train, 
Thou  greet’st  the  traveller  in  the  lane ; 
Pleased  at  his  greeting  thee  again, 

Yet  nothing  daunted 
Nor  grieved,  if  thou  be  set  at  naught : 


And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee,  like  a pleasant  thought 
When  such  are  wanted. 

Be  violets  in  their  sacred  mews 
The  flowers  the  wanton  zephyrs  choose 
Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 
Her  head  impearling ; 

Thou  liv’st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 

Yet  hast  not  gone  without  tby  fame ; 
Thou  art  indeed  by  many  a claim 
The  poet’s  darling. 

If  to  a rock  from  rains  he  fly, 

Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky, 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine,  lie 
Near  the  green  holly, 

And  wearily  at  length  should  fare ; 

He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art ! — a friend  at  hand,  to  scare 
His  melancholy. 

A hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower, 

Ere  thus  I have  lain  couched  an  hour, 
Have  I derived  from  thy  sweet  power 
Some  apprehension ; 

Some  steady  love ; some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight ; 
Some  chime  of  fancy,  wrong  or  right ; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 

And  one  chance  look  to  thee  should  turn 
I drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn 
A lowlier  pleasure ; 

The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds ; 

A wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 
Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

Fresh-smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 

When  thou  art  up,  alert  and  gay, 

Then,  cheerful  flower ! my  spirits  play 
With  kindred  gladness ; 

And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest, 
Thou  sink’st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 
Of  careful  sadness. 


THE  DAISY.  41 

And  all  day  long  I number  yet, 

A little  cyclops  with  one  eye 

All  seasons  through,  another  debt, 

Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

That  thought  comes  next, — and  instantly 

To  thee  am  owing ; 

The  freak  is  over ; 

An  instinct  call  it,  a blind  sense ; 

The  shape  will  vanish, — and  behold 

A happy,  genial  influence, 

A silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold 

Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 

That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

Nor  whither  going. 

In  fight  to  cover ! 

Child  of  the  year ! that  round  dost  run 

I see  thee  glittering  from  afar, — 

Thy  pleasant  course, — when  day ’s  begun, 

And  then  thou  art  a pretty  star ; 

As  ready  to  salute  the  sun 

Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

As  lark  or  leveret — 

In  heaven  above  thee ! 

Thy  long-lost  praise  thou  shalt  regain, 

Yet  like  a star,  with  glittering  crest, 

Nor  be  less  dear  to  future  men 

Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem’st  to  rest ; — 

Than  in  old  time ; — thou  not  in  vain 

May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Art  Nature’s  favorite. 

Who  shall  reprove  thee ! 

— 

Bright  flower ! for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 

TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER. 

I call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, — 
Sweet,  silent  creature ! 

That  breath’st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness  and  a share 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Of  thy  meek  nature ! 

Daisy ! again  I talk  to  thee, 

William  Wordsworth. 

For  thou  art  worthy ; — 

Thou  unassuming  commonplace 

Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a grace, 
Which  love  makes  for  thee ! 

SONG  OF  SPRING. 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

Laud  the  first  Spring  daisies ; 

I sit,  and  play  with  similes — 

Chaunt  aloud  their  praises ; 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Send  the  children  up 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising ; 

To  the  high  hill’s  top  ; 

And  many  a fond  and  idle  name 

Tax  not  the  strength  of  their  young  hands 

I give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame, 

To  increase  your  lands. 

As  is  the  humor  of  the  game, 

Gather  the  primroses, 

While  I am  gazing. 

Make  handfuls  into  posies ; 

A nun  demure,  of  lowly  port ; 

Take  them  to  the  little  girls  who  are  at  work 
in  mills : 

Or  sprightly  maiden  of  Love’s  court, 

Pluck  the  violets  blue, — 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Ah,  pluck  not  a few ! 

Of  all  temptations ; 

Knowest  thou  what  good  thoughts  from  Hea- 

A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 

ven  the  violet  instils  ? 

A starveling  in  a scanty  vest ; 

Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Give  the  children  holidays, 

Thy  appellations. 

(And  let  these  be  jolly  days, 

42 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Grant  freedom  to  the  children  in  this  joyous 
Spring ; 

Better  men,  hereafter, 

Shall  we  have,  for  laughter 
Freely  shouted  to  the  woods,  till  all  the 
echoes  ring. 

Send  the  children  up 
To  the  high  hill’s  top, 

Or  deep  into  the  wood’s  recesses, 

To  woo  Spring’s  caresses. 

See,  the  birds  together, 

In  this  splendid  weather, 

Worship  God — (for  he  is  God  of  birds  as 
well  as  men) : 

And  each  feathered  neighbor 
Enters  on  his  labor, — 

Sparrow,  robin,  redpole,  finch,  the  linnet, 
and  the  wren. 

As  the  year  advances, 

Trees  their  naked  branches 
Clothe,  and  seek  your  pleasure  in  their  green 
apparel. 

Insect  and  wild  beast 
Keep  no  Lent,  but  feast ; 

Spring  breathes  upon  the  earth,  and  their 
joy ’s  increased, 

And  the  rejoicing  birds  break  forth  in  one 
loud  carol. 

Ah,  come  and  woo  the  Spring ; 

List  to  the  birds  that  sing ; 

Pluck  the  primroses  ; pluck  the  violets : 
Pluck  the  daisies, 

Sing  their  praises ; 

Friendship  with  the  flowers  some  noble 
thought  begets. 

Come  forth  and  gather  these  sweet  elves, 
(More  witching  are  they  than  the  fays  of 
old,) 

Come  forth  and  gather  them  yourselves ; 
Learn  of  these  gentle  flowers  whose  worth 
is  more  than  gold. 

Come,  come  into  the  wood ; 

Pierce  into  the  bowers 
Of  these  gentle  flowers, 

Which,  not  in  solitude 

Dwell,  but  with  each  other  keep  society  : 

And  with  a simple  piety, 


Are  ready  to  be  woven  into  garlands  for  the 
good. 

Or,  upon  summer  earth, 

To  die,  in  virgin  worth ; 

Or  to  be  strewn  before  the  bride, 

And  the  bridegroom,  by  her  side. 

Come  forth  on  Sundays ; 

Come  forth  on  Mondays ; 

Come  forth  on  any  day ; 

Children,  come  forth  to  play : — 

Worship  the  God  of  Nature  in  your  child- 
hood ; 

Worship  Him  at  your  tasks  with  best  en- 
deavor ; 

Worship  Him  in  your  sports;  worship  Him 
ever; 

Worship  Him  in  the  wildwood ; 

Worship  Him  amidst  the  flowers ; 

In  the  greenwood  bowers ; 

Pluck  the  buttercups,  and  raise 
Your  voices  in  His  praise ! 

Edwabd  Tori.. 


THE  BEOOM-FLOWEB. 

0 the  Broom,  the  yellow  Broom, 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 

And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 
To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

1 know  the  realms  where  people  say 
The  flowers  have  not  their  fellow ; 

I know  where  they  shine  out  like  suns, 
The  crimson  and  the  yellow. 

I know  where  ladies  live  enchained 
In  luxury’s  silken  fetters, 

And  flowers  as  bright  as  glittering  gems 
Are  used  for  written  letters. 

But  ne’er  was  flower  so  fair  as  tliis, 

In  modern  days  or  olden ; 

It  groweth  on  its  nodding  stem 
Like  to  a garland  golden. 

And  all  about  my  mother’s  door 
Shine  out  its  glittering  bushes, 


J 


FLOWERS. 


43 


And  down  the  glen,  where  clear  as  light 
The  mountain- water  gushes. 

Take  all  the  rest ; hut  give  me  this, 

And  the  bird  that  nestles  in  it ; 

I love  it,  for  it  loves  the  Broom — 

The  green  and  yellow  linnet. 

Well,  call  the  rose  the  queen  of  flowers, 
And  boast  of  that  of  Sharon, 

Of  lilies  like  to  marble  cups, 

And  the  golden  rod  of  Aaron : 

I care  not  how  these  flowers  may  ho 
Beloved  of  man  and  woman ; 

The  Broom  it  is  the  flower  for  me, 

That  groweth  on  the  common. 

0 the  Broom,  the  yellow  Broom, 

The  ancient  poet  sung  it, 

And  dear  it  is  on  summer  days 
To  lie  at  rest  among  it. 

Mary  Howitt. 


THE  BRAMBLE  FLOWER. 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows, 
Wild  bramble  of  the  brake ! 

So,  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose ; 

I love  it  for  his  sake. 

Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 
O’er  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 

Thou  need’st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 
Thy  satin-threaded  flowers ; 

For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull, 

That  cannot  feel  how  fair, 

Amid  all  beauty  beautiful, 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are, 

How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill, 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem, 

How  soft  thy  voice  when  woods  are  still, 
And  thou  sing’st  hymns  to  them ; 

While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow, 
And,  ’mid  the  general  hush, 

A sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush ! 


The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead  ; 

The  violet  by  the  mossed  gray  stone 
Hath  laid  her  weary  head ; 

But  thou,  wild  bramble ! back  dost  bring, 
In  all  their  beauteous  power, 

The  fresh  green  days  of  life’s  fair  Spring, 
And  boyhood’s  blossomy  hour. 

Scorned  bramble  of  the  brake ! once  more 
Thou  bidd’st  me  be  a boy, 

To  gad  with  thee  the  woodlands  o’er, 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 

Ebenezer  Elliott. 


THE  WILD  HONEYSUCKLE. 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 

Untouched  thy  honeyed  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet : 

No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 

No  busy  hand  provoke  a tear. 

By  Nature’s  self  in  white  arrayed, 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 

And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 

And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes — 

Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms,  that  must  decay 
I grieve  to  see  your  future  doom ; 

They  died — nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay — 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom ; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn’s  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 
At  first  thy  little  being  came : 

If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 

For  when  you  die  you  are  the  same ; 

The  space  between  is  but  an  hour, 

The  frail  duration  of  a flower. 

Philip  Freneau. 


44 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


THE  BRIER. 

My  brier  that  smelledst  sweet, 

When  gentle  Spring’s  first  heat 
Ran  through  thy  quiet  veins ; 

Thou  that  couldst  injure  none, 

But  wouldst  be  left  alone, 

Alone  thou  leavest  me,  and  nought  of  thine 
remains. 

What ! hath  no  poet’s  lyre 
O’er  thee,  sweet-breathing  brier, 
Hung  fondly,  ill  or  well  ? 

And  yet,  methinks,  with  thee 
A poet’s  sympathy, 

Whether  in  weal  or  woe,  in  life  or  death, 
might  dwell. 

Hard  usage  both  must  bear, 

Few  hands  your  youth  will  rear, 

Few  bosoms  cherish  you ; 

Your  tender  prime  must  bleed 
Ere  you  are  sweet ; but,  freed 
From  life,  you  then  are  prized ; thus  prized 
are  poets  too. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow’st  beside 
the  way, 

Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold  ! 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 

Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  up- 
hold— 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o’erjoyed  that 
they 

An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth’s  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth ! — thou  art  more  dear 
to  me 

Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne’er  drew  the  Spanish 
prow 

Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas ; 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
of  age,  to  rob  the  lover’s  heart  of  ease. 


’Tis  the  Spring’s  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand; 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God’s  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 

To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a more  summer-like,  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily’s  breezy  tent, 

His  conquered  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles 
burst. 

Then  think  I of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass ; 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 
Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 

The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a thousand  ways ; 

Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind  ; of  waters  blue, 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap ; and  of  a sky  above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a stray  lamb 
doth  move. 

My  childhood’s  earliest  thoughts  are  linked 
with  thee ; 

The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin’s  song, 
Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long ; 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 

Listened  as  if  I heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  did 
bring 

Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I were  happy 
peers. 

How  like  a prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret 
show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 

And  with  a child’s  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God’s  book. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


FLOWERS. 


45 


THE  VIOLET. 

O ! faint,  delicious,  spring-time  violet, 

Thine  odor,  like  a key, 

Turns  noiselessly  in  memory’s  wards  to  let 
A thought  of  sorrow  free. 

The  breath  of  distant  fields  upon  my  brow 
Blows  through  that  open  door 
The  sound  of  wind-borne  bells,  more  sweet 
and  low, 

And  sadder  than  of  yore. 

It  comes  afar,  from  that  beloved  place, 

And  that  beloved  hour, 

When  life  hung  ripening  in  love’s  golden 
grace, 

Like  grapes  above  a bower. 

A spring  goes  singing  through  its  reedy  grass ; 

The  lark  sings  o’er  my  head, 

Drowned  in  the  sky — 0 pass,  ye  visions,  pass! 
I would  that  I were  dead ! — 

Why  hast  thou  opened  that  forbidden  door 
From  which  I ever  flee  ? 

0,  vanished  Joy ! O Love,  that  art  no  more, 
Let  my  vexed  spirit  be ! 

O violet ! thy  odor  through  my  brain 

Hath  searched,  and  stung  to  grief 
This  sunny  day,  as  if  a curse  did  stain 
Thy  velvet  leaf. 

William  W.  Stoby. 


FLOWERS. 

I will  not  have  the  mad  Clytie, 
Whose  head  is  turned  by  the  sun  ; 
The  tulip  is  a courtly  quean, 

Whom,  therefore,  I will  shun ; 

The  cowslip  is  a country  wench 
The  violet  is  a nun ; — 

But  I will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 

The  queen  of  every  one. 

The  pea  is  but  a wanton  witch, 

In  too  much  haste  to  wed, 

And  clasps  her  rings  on  every  hand  ; 
The  wolfsbane  I should  dread ; — 


Nor  will  I dreary  rosemarye, 

That  always  mourns  the  dead ; — 

But  I will  woo  the  dainty  rose, 

With  her  cheeks  of  tender  red. 

The  lily  is  all  in  white,  like  a saint, 

And  so  is  no  mate  for  me — 

And  the  daisy’s  cheek  is  tipped  with  a blush, 
She  is  of  such  low  degree ; 

Jasmine  is  sweet,  and  has  many  loves, 

And  the  broom ’s  betrothed  to  the  bee  ; — 
But  I will  plight  with  the  dainty  rose, 

For  fairest  of  all  is  she. 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 
That  now  she  knows, 

When  I resemble  her  to  thee, 

How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that’s  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 
That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 

Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth — 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 

And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
May  read  in  thee — 

How  small  a part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

Edmund  Walleb. 


CANZONET. 

Flowers  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green, 
Cheerily  the  linnets  sing ; 

Winds  are  soft,  and  skies  serene ; 
Time,  however,  soon  shall  throw 
Winter’s  snow 

O ’er  the  buxom  breast  of  Spring ! 


46 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Hope,  that  buds  in  lover’s  heart, 

Lives  not  through  the  scorn  of  years ; 
Time  makes  love  itself  depart ; 

Time  and  scorn  congeal  the  mind — 
Looks  unkind 

Freeze  affection’s  warmest  tears. 

Time  shall  make  the  bushes  green ; 

Time  dissolve  the  winter  snow ; 

Winds  be  soft,  and  skies  serene  ; 

Linnets  sing  their  wonted  strain. 

But  again 

Blighted  love  shall  never  blow ! 

Luis  de  Camoens,  (Portuguese.) 
Translation  of  Lobd  Strangford. 


CHORUS  OF  FLOWERS. 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers, 

Born  of  sunny  showers, 

(Think,  whene’er  you  see  us,  what  our  beauty 
saith ;) 

Utterance,  mute  and  bright, 

Of  some  unknown  delight, 

We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure,  by  our  simple 
breath : 

All  who  see  us  love  us — 

We  befit  all  places ; 

Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles — and  unto  graces, 
races. 


The  honey-dropping  moon, 

On  a night  in  June, 

Kisses  our  pale  pathway  leaves,  that  felt  the 
bridegroom  pass. 

Age,  the  withered  clinger, 

On  us  mutely  gazes, 

And  wraps  the  thought  of  his  last  bed  in  his 
childhood’s  daisies. 

See  (and  scorn  all  duller 
Taste)  how  Heaven  loves  color ; 

How  great  Nature,  clearly,  joys  in  red  and 
green ; 

What  sweet  thoughts  she  thinks 
Of  violets  and  pinks, 

And  a thousand  flushing  hues  made  solely  to 
be  seen : 

See  her  whitest  lilies 
Chill  the  silver  showers, 

And  what  a red  mouth  is  her  rose,  the  woman 
of  her  flowers. 

Uselessness  divinest, 

Of  a use  the  finest, 

Painteth  us,  the  teachers  of  the  end  of  use ; 
Travelers,  weary-eyed, 

Bless  us,  far  and  wide ; 

Unto  sick  and  prisoned  thoughts  we  give  sud- 
den truce : 

Not  a poor  town  window 
Loves  its  sickliest  planting, 

But  its  wall  speaks  loftier  truth  than  Babylo- 
nian vaunting. 


Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 
All,  and  sweetly  voiceless, 

Though  the  March-winds  pipe  to  make  our 
passage  clear; 

Not  a whisper  tells 
Where  our  small  seed  dwells, 

Nor  is  known  the  moment  green  when  our 
tips  appear. 

We  thread  the  earth  in  silence, 

In  silence  build  our  bowers — 

And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till  we  laugh 
a-top,  sweet  flowers. 


Sagest  yet  the  uses 
Mixed  with  our  sweet  juices, 

Whether  man  or  May -fly  profit  of  the  balm ; 
As  fair  fingers  healed 
Knights  from  the  olden  field, 

We  hold  cups  of  mightiest  force  to  give  the 
wildest  calm. 

Even  the  terror,  poison, 

Hath  its  plea  for  blooming ; 

Life  it  gives  to  reverent  lips,  though  death  tc 
the  presuming. 


The  dear  lumpish  baby, 

Humming  with  the  May-bee, 

Hails  us  with  his  bright  star,  stumbling 
through  the  grass ; 


And  oh ! our  sweet  soul-taker, 

That  thief,  the  honey-maker, 

What  a house  hatli  he,  by  the  thymy  glen ! 
In  his  talking  rooms 
How  the  feasting  fumes, 


FLOWERS. 


47 


Till  the  gold  cups  overflow  to  the  mouths  of 
men! 

The  butterflies  come  aping 
Those  fine  thieves  of  ours, 

And  flutter  round  our  rifled  tops,  like  tickled 
flowers  with  flowers. 

See  those  tops,  how  beauteous ! 

What  fair  service  duteous 
Round  some  idol  waits,  as  on  their  lord  the 
Nine. 

Elfin  court ’t  would  seem, 

And  taught,  perchance,  that  dream 
Which  the  old  Greek  mountain  dreamt,  upon 
nights  divine. 

To  expound  such  wonder 
Human  speech  avails  not , 

Yet  there  dies  no  poorest  weed,  that  such  a 
glory  exhales  not. 

Think  of  all  these  treasures, 

Matchless  works  and  pleasures, 

Every  one  a marvel,  more  than  thought  can 
say; 

Then  think  in  what  bright  showers 
We  thicken  fields  and  bowers, 

And  with  what  heaps  of  sweetness  half  stifle 
wanton  May ; 

Think  of  the  mossy  forests 
By  the  bee-birds  haunted, 

And  all  those  Amazonian  plains,  lone  lying 
as  enchanted. 

Trees  themselves  are  ours ; 

Fruits  are  born  of  flowers; 

Peach,  and  roughest  nut,  were  blossoms  in 
the  Spring ; 

The  lusty  bee  knows  well 
The  news,  and  comes  pell-mell, 

And  dances  in  the  gloomy  thicks  with  dark- 
some antheming ; 

Beneath  the  very  burden 
Of  planet-pressing  ocean, 

We  wash  our  smiling  cheeks  in  peace — a 
thought  for  meek  devotion. 

Tears  of  Phoebus — missings 
Of  Cytherea’s  kissings, 
nave  in  us  been  found,  and  wise  men  find 
them  still ; 


Drooping  grace  unfurls 
Still  Hyacinthus’  curls, 

And  Narcissus  loves  himself  in  the  selfish 
rill ; 

Thy  red  lip,  Adonis, 

Still  is  wet  with  morning ; 

And  the  step  that  bled  for  thee  +he  rosy 
brier  adorning. 

0 ! true  things  are  fables, 

Fit  for  sagest  tables, 

And  the  flowers  are  true  things — yet  no  fa- 
bles they ; 

Fables  were  not  more 
Bright,  nor  loved  of  yore — 

Yet  they  grew  not,  like  the  flowers,  by  every 
old  pathway ; 

Grossest  hand  can  test  us — 

Fools  may  prize  us  never — 

Yet  we  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise — marvels  sweet 
for  ever. 

Who  shall  say  that  flowers 
Dress  not  heaven’s  own  bowers  ? 

Who  its  love,  without  us,  can  fancy — or  sweet 
floor? 

Who  shall  even  dare 

To  say  we  sprang  not  there — 

And  came  not  down,  that  Love  might  bring 
one  piece  of  heaven  the  more  ? 

O ! pray  believe  that  angels 
From  those  blue  dominions 
Brought  us  in  their  white  laps  down,  ’twixt 
their  golden  pinions. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


FLOWERS. 

Spake  full  well,  in  language  quaint  and  olden, 
One  who  dwelletli  by  the  castled  Rhine, 
When  he  called  the  flowers,  so  blue  and 
golden, 

Stars,  that  in  earth’s  firmament  do  shine. 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history, 
As  astrologers  and  seers  of  eld ; 

Yet  not  wrapped  about  with  awful  mystery, 
Like  the  burning  stars  which  they  beheld. 


48 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Wondrous  truths,  and  manifold  as  wondrous, 
God  hath  written  in  those  stars  above ; 
But. not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets  under  us 
Stands  the  revelation  of  his  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation, 

Writ  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours — 
Making  evident  our  own  creation, 

In  these  stars  of  earth,  these  golden  flow- 
ers. 

And  the  poet,  faithful  and  far-seeing, 

Sees,  alike  in  stars  and  flowers,  a part 
Of  the  self-same,  universal  being 
Which  is  throbbing  in  his  brain  and  heart. 

Gorgeous  flowerets  in  the  sunlight  shining, 
Blossoms  flaunting  in  the  eye  of  day, 
Tremulous  leaves,  with  soft  and  silver  lining, 
Buds  that  open  only  to  decay ; 

Brilliant  hopes,  all  woven  in  gorgeous  tissues, 
Flaunting  gayly  in  the  golden  light ; 

Large  desires,  with  most  uncertain  issues, 
Tender  wishes,  blossoming  at  night ! 

These  in  flowers  and  men  are  more  than 
seeming ; 

Workings  are  they  of  the  self-same  powers 
Which  the  poet,  in  no  idle  dreaming, 

Seeth  in  himself  and  in  the  flowers. 

Everywhere  about  us  are  they  glowing — 
Some,  like  stars,  to  tell  us  Spring  is  born ; 
Others,  their  blue  eyes  with,  tears  o’erflowing, 
Stand,  like  Ruth,  amid  the  golden  corn. 

Hot  alone  in  Spring’s  armorial  bearing, 

And  in  Summer’s  green-emblazoned  field, 
But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn’s  wearing, 
In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield ; 

Hot  alone  in  meadows  and  green  alleys, 

On  the  mountain-top,  and  by  the  brink 
Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Hature  stoop  to  drink ; 

Hot  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 

Hot  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary, 

On  the  tombs  of  heroes,  carved  in  stone ; 


In  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant ; 

In  ancestral  homes,  whose  crumbling  tow- 
ers, , 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  Present, 

Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers. 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 
Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like 
wings, 

Teaching  us,  by  most  persuasive  reasons, 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  childlike,  credulous  affection, 

We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand — 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 
Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 


HYMH  TO  THE  FLOWERS. 

Day-stars!  that  ope  your  eyes  with  morn 
to  twinkle 

From  rainbow  galaxies  of  earth’s  creation, 
And  dew-drops  on  her  lonely  altars  sprinkle 
As  a libation ! 

Ye  matin  worshippers ! who  bending  lowly 
Before  the  uprisen  sun — God’s  lidless  eye — 
Throw  from  your  chalices  a sweet  and  holy 
Incense  on  high ! 

Ye  bright  mosaics!  that  with  storied  beauty 
The  floor  of  Hature’s  temple  tessellate, 
What  numerous  emblems  of  instructive  duty 
Your  forms  create ! 

’Heath  cloistered  boughs,  each  floral  bell  that 
swingeth 

And  tolls  its  perfume  on  the  passing  air, 
Makes  sabbath  in  the  fields,  and  ever  ringeth 
A call  to  prayer. 

Hot  to  the  domes  where  crumbling  arch  and 
column 

Attest  the  feebleness  of  mortal  hand, 

But  to  that  fane,  most  catholic  and  solemn, 
Which  God  hath  planned  ; 


NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 


49 


To  that  cathedral,  boundless  as  our  wonder, 
Whose  quenchless  lamps  the  sun  and  moon 
supply — 

Its  choir  the  winds  and  waves,  its  organ 
thunder, 

Its  dome  the  sky. 

There — as  in  solitude  and  shade  I wander 
Through  the  green  aisles,  or,  stretched  upon 
the  sod, 

Awed  by  the  silence,  reverently  ponder 
The  ways  of  God — 

Your  voiceless  lips,  O Flowers,  are  living 
preachers, 

Each  cup  a pulpit,  and  each  leaf  a book, 

Supplying  to  my  fancy  numerous  teachers 
From  loneliest  nook. 

Floral  Apostles ! that  in  dewy  splendor 
“Weep  without  woe,  and  blush  without  a 
crime,” 

0 may  I deeply  learn,  and  ne’er  surrender, 
Your  lore  sublime ! 

“ Thou  wert  not,  Solomon ! in  all  thy  glory, 
Arrayed,”  the  lilies  cry,  “in  robes  like 
ours ; 

How  vain  your  grandeur ! Ah,  how  transitory 
Are  human  flowers ! ” 

In  the  sweet-scented  pictures,  Heavenly  Art- 
ist! 

With  which  thou  paintest  Nature’s  wide- 
spread hall, 

What  a delightful  lesson  thou  impartest 
Of  love  to  all. 

Not  useless  are  ye,  Flowers ! though  made 
for  pleasure : 

Blooming  o’er  field  and  wave,  by  day  and 
night, 

From  every  source  your  sanction  bids  me 
treasure 

• Harmless  delight. 

Ephemeral  sages ! what  instructors  hoary 
For  such  a world  of  thought  could  furnish 
scope  ? 

Each  fading  calyx  a memento  mori , 

Yet  fount  of  hope. 

4 


Posthumous  glories ! angel-like  collection ! 

Upraised  from  seed  or  bulb  interred  in 
earth, 

Ye  are  to  me  a type  of  resurrection, 

And  second  birth. 

Were  I,  0 God,  in  churchless  lands  remain- 
ing, 

Far  from  all  voice  of  teachers  or  divines, 

My  soul  would  find,  in  flowers  of  thy  ordain- 
ing, 

Priests,  sermons,  shrines ! 

Horace  Smith. 


NATURE  AND  THE  POETS. 

I stood  tiptoe  upon  a little  hill, 

The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds,  which  with  a modest 
pride 

Pull  droopingly,  in  slanting  curve  aside, 
Their  scanty-leaved  and  finely-tapering  stems, 
Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems 
Caught  from  the  early  sobbing  of  the  morn. 
The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks 
new-shorn, 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook  ; sweetly 
they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there 
crept 

A little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 
Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves ; 
For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 
Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o’er  the  green. 
There  was  wide  wandering,  for  the  greediest 
eye 

To  peer  about  upon  variety — 

Far  round  the  horizon’s  crystal  air  to  skim, 
And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim — 
To  picture  out  the  quaint  and  curious  bend- 
ing 

Of  a fresh  woodland  alley  never-ending — 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts,  and  leafy  shelves, 
Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  them- 
selves. 

I gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light  and  free 
As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 
Had  played  upon  my  heels:  I was  light- 
hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started ; 


50 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


So  I straightway  began  to  pluck  a posy, 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft  and  rosy : 

A bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about 
them ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without 
them ! 

And  let  a lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 
And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots,  to 
keep  them 

Moist,  cool,  and  green ; and  shade  the  violets, 
That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A filbert-hedge  with  wild  brier  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine,  taking  the  soft 
wind 

Upon  their  summer  thrones ; there  too  should 
be 

The  frequent  chequer  of  a youngling  tree, 
That  with  a score  of  light  green  brethren 
shoots 

From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots, 
Round  which  is  heard  a spring-head  of  clear 
waters, 

Babbling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
The  spreading  blue-bells : it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and,  scattered  thought- 
lessly 

By  infant  hands,  left  on  the  path  to  die. 

Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 

Ye  ardent  marigolds ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 
For  great  Apollo  bids 

That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be 
sung 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 
And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 
Tell  him,  I have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses  : 
So,  haply,  when  I rove  in  some  far  vale, 

His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet  peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a flight — 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o’er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 

Tc  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 
Linger  awhile  upon  some  bending  planks 
That  lean  against  a streamlet’s  rushy  banks, 
And  watch  intently  Nature’s  gentle  doings : 
They  will  be  found  softer  than  ring-doves’ 
cooings. 


How  silent  comes  the  water  round  that  bend! 
Not  the  minutest  whisper  does  it  send 
To  the  o’erhanging  sallows : blades  of  grass 
Slowly  across  the  chequer’d  shadows  pass. 
Why  you  might  read  two  sonnets,  ere  they 
reach 

To  where  the  hurrying  freshnesses  aye  preach 
A natural  sermon  o’er  their  pebbly  beds ; 
Where  swarms  of  minnows  show  their  little 
heads, 

Staying  their  wavy  bodies  ’gainst  the  streams, 
To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Tempered  with  coolness.  How  they  ever 
wrestle 

With  their  own  sweet  delight,  and  ever 
nestle 

Their  silver  bellies  on  the  pebbly  sand ! 

If  you  but  scantily  hold  out  the  hand, 

That  very  instant  not  one  will  remain ; 

But  turn  your  eye,  and  they  are  there  again. 

The  ripples  seem  right  glad  to  reach  those 
cresses, 

And  cool  themselves  among  the  emerald 
tresses ; 

The  while  they  cool  themselves,  they  fresh- 
ness give, 

And  moisture,  that  the  bowery  green  may  live : 
So  keeping  up  an  interchange  of  favors, 

Like  good  men  in  the  truth  of  their  beha- 
viors. 

Sometimes  goldfinches  one  by  one  will  drop 
From  low-hung  branches;  little  space  they 
stop, 

But  sip,  and  twitter,  and  their  feathers  sleek ; 
Then  off  at  once,  as  in  a wanton  freak  : 

Or  perhaps,  to  show  their  black  and  golden 
wings, 

Pausing  upon  their  yellow  flutterings. 

Were  I in  such  a place,  I sure  should  pray 
That  nought  less  sweet  might  call  my  thoughts 
away, 

Than  the  soft  rustle  of  a maiden’s  gown 
Fanning  away  the  dandelion’s  down  ; 

Than  the  light  music  of  her  nimble  toes 
Patting  against  the  sorrel  as  she  goes. 

How  she  would  start  and  blush,  thus  to  be 
caught ' 

Playing  in  all  her  innocence  of  thought ! 


NATURE  AND 

O let  me  lead  her  gently  o’er  the  brook, 
Watch  her  half-smiling  lips  and  downward 
look ; 

O let  me  for  one  moment  touch  her  wrist ; 
Let  me  one  moment  to  her  breathing  list ; 
And  as  she  leaves  me,  may  she  often  turn 
Her  fair  eyes  looking  through  her  locks  au- 
burn. 

What  next  ? a tuft  of  evening  primroses, 

O’er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 
O’er  which  it  well  might  take  a pleasant 
sleep, 

But  that ’t  is  ever  startled  by  the  leap 
Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers ; or  by  the  flitting 
Of  divers  moths,  that  aye  their  rest  are  quit- 
ting; 

Or  by  the  moon  lifting  her  silver  rim 
Above  a cloud,  and  with  a gradual  swim 
Coming  into  the  blue  with  all  her  light. 

0 Maker  of  sweet  poets ! dear  delight 
Of  this  fair  world  and  all  its  gentle  livers ; 
Spangler  of  clouds,  halo  of  crystal  rivers, 
Mingler  with  leaves,  and  dew,  and  tumbling 
streams ; 

Closer  of  lovely  eyes  to  lovely  dreams  ; 

Lover  of  loneliness,  and  wandering, 

Of  upcast  eye,  and  tender  pondering ! 

Thee  must  I praise  above  all  other  glories 
That  smile  us  on  to  tell  delightful  stories. 

For  what  has  made  the  sage  or  poet  write, 
But  the  fair  paradise  of  Nature’s  light  ? 

In  the  calm  grandeur  of  a sober  line, 

We  see  the  waving  of  the  mountain  pine ; 
And  when  a tale  is  beautifully  staid, 

We  feel  the  safety  of  a hawthorn  glade  ; 

When  it  is  moving  on  luxurious  wings, 

The  soul  is  lost  in  pleasant  smotherings ; 

Fair  dewy  roses  brush  against  our  faces, 

And  flowering  laurels  spring  from  diamond 
vases ; 

O’erhead  we  see  the  jasmine  and  sweet- 
brier, 

And  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green 
attire  ; 

While  at  our  feet,  the  voice  of  crystal  bub- 
bles 

Charms  us  at  once  away  from  all  our  trou- 
bles, 


THE  POETS.  51 

So  that  we  feel  uplifted  from  the  world, 
Walking  upon  the  white  clouds  wreathed  and 
curled. 

So  felt  he  who  first  told  how  Psyche  went 
On  the  smooth  wind  to  realms  of  wonder- 
ment ; 

What  Psyche  felt,  and  Love,  when  their  full 
lips 

First  touch’d ; what  amorous  and  fondling 
nips 

They  gave  each  other’s  cheeks — with  all 
their  sighs, 

And  how  they  kist  each  other’s  tremulous 
eyes; 

The  silver  lamp — the  ravishment — the  won- 
der— 

The  darkness — loneliness — the  fearful  thun- 
der ; 

Their  woes  gone  by,  and  both  to  heaven  up 
flown, 

To  bow  for  gratitude  before  Jove’s  throne. 

So  did  he  feel,  who  pulled  the  boughs  aside, 
That  we  might  look  into  a forest  wide, 

To  catch  a glimpse  of  Fauns,  and  Dryades 
Coming  with  softest  rustle  through  the  trees; 
And  garlands  woven  of  flowers  wild,  and 
sweet, 

Upheld  on  ivory  wrists,  or  sporting  feet : 
Telling  us  how  fair  trembling  Syrinx  fled 
Arcadian  Pan,  with  such  a fearful  dread. 
Poor  Nymph, — poor  Pan, — how  did  he  weep 
to  find 

Nought  but  a lovely  sighing  of  the  wind 
Along  the  reedy  stream ! a half-heard  strain, 
Full  of  sweet  desolation — balmy  pain. 

What  first  inspired  a bard  of  old  to  sing 
Narcissus  pining  o’er  the  untainted  spring  ? 
In  some  delicious  ramble  he  had  found 
A little  space,  with  boughs  all  woven  round ; 
And  in  the  midst  of  all,  a clearer  pool 
Than  e’er  reflected  in  its  pleasant  cool 
The  blue  sky  here  and  there  serenely  peep- 
ing, 

Through  tendril  wreaths  fantastically  creep- 
ing. 

And  on  the  bank  a lonely  flower  he  spied, 

A meek  and  forlorn  flower,  with  nought  of 
pride, 


Ui  Of  JU,  Life 


52 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Drooping  its  beauty  o’er  the  watery  clear- 
ness, 

To  woo  its  own  sad  image  into  nearness. 
Deaf  to  light  Zephyrus  it  would  not  move ; 
But  still  would  seem  to  droop,  to  pine,  to 
love. 

So  while  the  poet  stood  in  this  sweet  spot, 
Some  fainter  gleamings  o’er  his  fancy  shot ; 
Nor  was  it  long  ere  he  had  told  the  tale 
Of  young  Narcissus,  and  sad  Echo’s  bale. 

Where  had  he  been,  from  whose  warm 
head  outflew 

That  sweetest  of  all  songs,  that  ever  knew 
That  aye  refreshing,  pure  deliciousness, 
Coming  ever  to  bless 

The  wanderer  by  moonlight — to  him  bring- 
ing 

Shapes  from  the  invisible  world,  unearthly 
singing 

From  out  the  middle  air,  from  flowery  nests, 
And  from  the  pillowy  silkiness  that  rests 
Full  in  the  speculation  of  the  stars  ? 

Ah ! surely  he  had  burst  our  mortal  bars ; 
Into  some  wondrous  region  he  had  gone, 

To  search  for  thee,  divine  Endymion ! 

He  was  a Poet,  sure  a lover  too, 

Who  stood  on  Latmos’  top,  what  time  there 
blew 

Soft  breezes  from  the  myrtle  vale  below ; 
And  brought,  in  faintness  solemn,  sweet,  and 
slow, 

A hymn  from  Dian’s  temple ; while  upswell- 

ing, 

The  incense  went  to  her  own  starry  dwell- 
ing. 

But  though  her  face  was  clear  as  infants’ 
eyes, 

Though  she  stood  smiling  o’er  the  sacrifice, 
The  poet  wept  at  her  so  piteous  fate, 

Wept  that  such  beauty  should  be  desolate. 

So  in  fine  wrath  some  golden  sounds  he 
won, 

And  gave  meek  Cynthia  her  Endymion. 

Queen  of  the  wide  air ; thou  most  lovely 
queen 

Of  all  the  brightness  that  mine  eyes  have 
seen ! 


As  thou  exceedest  all  things  in  thy  shine, 

So  every  tale  does  this  sweet  tale  of  thine. 

0 for  three  words  of  honey,  that  I might 
Tell  but  one  wonder  of  thy  bridal  night ! 

Where  distant  ships  do  seem  to  show  theii 
keels, 

Phoebus  awhile  delayed  his  mighty  wheels, 
And  turned  to  smile  upon  thy  bashful  eyes, 
Ere  he  his  unseen  pomp  would  solemnize. 
The  evening  weather  was  so  bright,  and  clear, 
That  men  of  health  were  of  unusual  cheer, 
Stepping  like  Homer  at  the  trumpet’s  call, 
Or  young  Apollo  on  the  pedestal ; 

And  lovely  women  were  as  fair  and  warm, 
As  Venus  looking  sideways  in  alarm. 

The  breezes  were  ethereal,  and  pure, 

And  crept  through  half-closed  lattices  to  cure 
The  languid  sick : it  cool’d  their  fever’d  sleep, 
And  soothed  them  into  slumbers  full  and 
deep. 

Soon  they  awoke  clear-eyed ; nor  burn’d 
with  thirsting, 

Nor  with  hot  fingers,  nor  with  temples  burst- 
ing; 

And  springing  up,  they  met  the  wondering 
sight 

Of  their  dear  friends,  nigh  foolish  with  de- 
light, 

Who  feel  their  arms  and  breasts,  and  kiss, 
and  stare, 

And  on  their  placid  foreheads  part  the  hair. 
Young  men  and  maidens  at  each  other  gazed, 
With  hands  held  back,  and  motionless, 
amazed 

To  see  the  brightness  in  each  other’s  eyes  ; 
And  so  they  stood,  fill’d  with  a sweet  sur- 
prise, 

Until  their  tongues  were  loosed  in  poesy. 
Therefore  no  lover  did  of  anguish  die ; 

But  the  soft  numbers,  in  that  moment  spoken, 
Made  silken  ties  that  never  may  be  broken. 

Cynthia ! I cannot  tell  the  greater  blisses 
That  follow’d  thine,  and  thy  dear  shepherd’s 
kisses : 

Was  there  a poet  born  ? — But  now  no  more — 
My  wandering  spirit  must  no  farther  soar. 

John  Keats. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


53 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

0 Nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 

Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are 
still, 

Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover’s  heart  dost 
fill, 

While  the  jolly  hours  lead  on  propitious 
May. 

Thy  liquid  notes,  that  close  the  eye  of  day, 

First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo’s 
bill, 

Portend  success  in  love.  O if  Jove’s  will 

Have  linked  that  amorous  power  to  thy 
soft  lay, 

Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 

Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove 
nigh; 

As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too 
late 

For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why. 

Whether  the  Muse  or  Love  call  thee  his 
mate, 

Both  them  I serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

John  Milton. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

As  it  fell  upon  a day, 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a pleasant  shade 
Which  a grove  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap,  and  birds  did  sing, 
Trees  did  grow,  and  plants  did  spring ; 
Every  thing  did  banish  moan, 

Save  the  nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean ’d  her  breast  up-till  a thorn ; 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull  ’st  ditty 
That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie ! now  would  she  cry ; 

Teru,  teru,  by-and-by ; 

That,  to  hear  her  so  complain, 

Scarce  I could  from  tears  refrain ; 

For  her  griefs,  so  lively  shown, 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

Ali ! (thought  I)  thou  mourn  ’st  in  vain ; 
None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain ; 


Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee ; 
Ruthless  bears,  they  will  not  cheer  thee ; 
King  Pandion,  he  is  dead ; 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp ’d  in  lead : 

All  thy  fellow-birds  do  sing, 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing ! 

Whilst  as  fickle  Fortune  smil’d, 

Thou  and  I were  both  beguil ’d. 

Every  one  that  flatters  thee 
Is  no  friend  in  misery. 

Words  are  easy,  like  the  wind; 

Faithful  friends  are  hard  to  find. 

Every  man  will  be  thy  friend 
Whilst  thou  hast  wherewith  to  spend ; 
But,  if  stores  of  crowns  be  scant, 

No  man  will  supply  thy  want. 

If  that  one  be  prodigal, 

Bountiful  they  will  him  call ; 

And,  with  such-like  flattering, 

“Pity  but  he  were  a king.” 

If  he  be  addict  to  vice, 

Quickly  him  they  will  entice ; 

But  if  Fortune  once  do  frown, 

Then  farewell  his  great  renown : 

They  that  fawn ’d  on  him  before, 

Use  his  company  no  more. 

He  that  is  thy  friend  indeed, 

He  will  help  thee  in  thy  need ; 

If  thou  sorrow,  he  will  weep, 

If  thou  wake,  he  cannot  sleep. 

Thus,  of  every  grief  in  heart, 

He  with  thee  doth  bear  a part. 

These  are  certain  signs  to  know 
Faithful  friend  from  flattering  foe. 

Bichakd  Baenfield. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Dear  chorister,  who  from  those  shadows 
sends — 

Ere  that  the  blushing  morn  dare  show  her 
light — 

Such  sad  lamenting  strains,  that  night  at- 
tends, 

Become  all  ear,  stars  stay  to  hear  thy  plight ; 

If  one  whose  grief  even  reach  of  thought 
transcends, 

Who  ne’er  (not  in  a dream)  did  taste  delight, 

May  thee  importune  who  like  case  pretends, 


54 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


And  seems  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe’s  despite ; 
Tell  me  (so  may  thou  fortune  milder  try, 
And  long,  long  sing!)  for  what  thou  thus 
complains, 

Since  Winter ’s  gone,  and  sun  in  dappled  sky 
Enamor ’d  smiles  on  woods  and  flow  ’ry 
plains  ? 

The  bird,  as  if  my  questions  did  her  move, 
With  trembling  wings  sighed  forth,  “ I love, 
I love.” 

William  Deummond. 


ODE  TO  A NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a drowsy  numbness  pains 
My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I had  drunk ; 

Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 
One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  had  sunk. 

’Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 

That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 

Singest  of  Summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

Oh  for  a draught  of  vintage 

Cooled  a long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 

Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 
Dance,  and  Provencal  song,  and  sun-burned 
mirth ! 

Oh  for  a beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 

With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth — 

That  I might  drink,  and  leave  the  world 
unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 
What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never 
known — 

The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret ; 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other 
groan — 

Where  palsy  shakes  a few  sad,  last  gray 
hairs — 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin, 
and  dies — 


Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow, 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs — 

Where  beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous 
eyes, 

Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away ! away ! for  I will  fly  to  thee ! 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  re* 
tards ; 

Already  with  thee  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  queen-moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes 
blown 

Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I can  not  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 
Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the 
boughs ; 

But,  in  embalmed  darkness  guess  each  sweet 
Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree 
wild: 

White  hawthorn  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets,  covered  up  in  leaves ; 
And  mid-May’s  oldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  bees  on  summer 
eves. 

Darkling  I listen ; and  for  many  a time 
I have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a mused 
rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath ; 

Now,  more  than  ever,  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight,  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad, 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I have  ears  in 
vain — 

To  thy  high  requiem  become  a sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 
I In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown : 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


55 


Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick 
for  home, 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn : 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charmed  magic  casements  opening  on  the 
foam 

Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the  very  word  is  like  a hell, 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self! 

Adieu ! the  Fancy  can  not  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 

Adieu ! adieu ! thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still 
stream, 

Up  the  hill-side ; and  now  ’tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades : 

Was  it  a vision  or  a waking  dream? 

Fled  is  that  music—  do  I wake  or  sleep  ? 

John  Keats. 


PHILOMELA. 

Hark  ! ah,  the  Nightingale ! 

The  tawny-throated ! 

Hark ! from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a burst ! 
What  triumph ! hark — what  pain ! 

0 wanderer  from  a Grecian  shore, 

Still — after  many  years,  in  distant  lands — 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 
That  wild,  unquershed,  deep-sunken,  old- 
world  pain — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn, 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 

And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 

And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 

To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English 
grass, 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse, 

With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes, 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister’s 
shame  ? 


Dost  thou  once  more  essay 
Thy  flight;  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change  ; 

Once  more ; and  once  more  make  resound, 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephisian  vale  ? 

Listen,  Eugenia — 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through 
the  leaves ! 

Again — thou  hearest ! 

Eternal  passion ! 

Eternal  pain ! 

Matthew  Arnold 


THE  NIGHTINGALE  AND  THE  DOVE. 

0 Nightingale  ! thou  surely  art 
A creature  of  a “fiery  heart”  ; 

These  notes  of  thine, — they  pierce  and  pierce : 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  ! 

Thou  sing’st  as  if  the  god  of  wine 
Had  helped  thee  to  a valentine — 

A song  in  mockery,  and  despite 
Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  night, 

And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 
Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  groves. 

1 heard  a stock-dove  sing  or  say 
His  homely  tale,  this  very  day ; 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees, 

Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze  : 

He  did  not  cease  ; but  cooed — and  cooed ; 
And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed : 

He  sang  of  love,  with  quiet  blending, 

Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending ; 

Of  serious  faith,  and  inward  glee ; 

That  was  the  song,  the  song  for  me ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

No  cloud,  no  relict  of  the  sunken  day 
Distinguishes  the  West;  no  long  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 
Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge ! 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 
But  hear  no  murmuring  • it  flows  silently 


56 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


i 


O’er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.  All  is  still ; 

A balmy  night ! and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall 
find 

A pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 

And  hark ! the  Nightingale  begins  its  song — 
“ Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ” bird ! 

A melancholy  bird ! Oh,  idle  thought ! 

In  Nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

But  some  night-wandering  man,  whose  heart 
was  pierced 

With  the  remembrance  of  a grievous  wrong, 
Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 

(And  so,  poor  wretch ! filled  all  things  with 
himself, 

And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 
Of  his  own  sorrow) — he,  and  such  as  he, 

First  named  these  notes  a melancholy  strain. 
And  many  a poet  echoes  the  conceit — 

Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 
When  he  had  better  far  have  stretched  his 
limbs 

Beside  a brook  in  mossy  forest-dell, 

By  sun  or  moonlight ; to  the  influxes 
Of  shapes,  and  sounds,  and  shifting  elements, 
Surrendering  his  whole  spirit ; of  his  song 
And  of  his  fame  forgetful ! so  his  fame 
Should  share  in  Nature’s  immortality — 

A venerable  thing ! — and  so  his  song 
Should  make  all  Nature  lovelier,  and  itself 
Be  loved  like  Nature ! But  ’twill  not  be  so ; 
And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical, 

Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the 
Spring 

In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still, 

Full  of  meek  sympathy,  must  heave  their 
sighs 

O’er  Philomela’s  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  friend,  and  thou,  our  sister!  we  have 
learnt 

A different  lore : we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature’s  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance ! ’T  is  the  merry  Nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 

As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music ! 


And  I know  a grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ; and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood  ■ 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up ; and  grass, 
Thin  grass  and  kingcups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I knew 
So  many  nightingales.  And  far  and  near, 

In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other’s  song, 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 

And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than 
all- 

Stirring  the  air  with  such  a harmony, 

That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might 
almost 

Forget  it  was  not  day ! On  moon-lit  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 
Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both 
bright  and  full, 

Glistening,  while  many  a glowworm  in  the 
shade 

Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A most  gentle  maid, 
Who  dwellcth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve, 

(Even  like  a lady  vowed  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove,) 
Glides  through  the  pathways — she  knows  all 
their  notes, 

That  gentle  maid ! and  oft,  a moment’s  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a cloud, 
Hath  heard  a pause  of  silence  ; till  the  moon, 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 

As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A hundred  airy  harps ! And  she  hath 
watched 

Many  a nightingale  perched  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the 
breeze, 

And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song, 
Like  tipsy  Joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

Farewell,  0 warbler ! till  to-morrow  eve ; 
And  you,  my  friends ! farewell,  a short  fare- 
well! 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


57 


We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly, 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — That  strain 
again ! 

Full  fain  it  would  delay  me ! My  dear  babe, 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound, 

Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp, 

How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 

And  bid  us  listen ! And  I deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  Mature’s  playmate.  He  knows 
well 

The  evening-star ; and  once  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood,  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant’s 
dream,) 

I hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot, 

And  he  beheld  the  moon ; and,  hushed  at  once, 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 
While  his  fair  eyes,  that  swam  with  undrop- 
ped tears, 

Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moonbeam ! Well ! — 
It  is  a father’s  tale : But  if  that  Heaven 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow 
up 

Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the 
night 

He  may  associate  joy. — Once  more,  farewell, 
Sweet  Nightingale ! Once  more,  my  friends ! 
farewell. 

Samuel  Tatloe  Coleridge. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Prize  thou  the  nightingale, 

Who  soothes  thee  with  his  tale, 

And  wakes  the  woods  around ; 

A singing  feather  he — a winged  and  wander- 
ing sound ; 

Whose  tender  caroling 
Sets  all  ears  listening 
Unto  that  living  lyre, 

Whence  flow  the  airy  notes  his  ecstacies  in- 
spire ; 

Whose  shrill,  capricious  song 
Breathes  like  a flute  along, 

With  many  a careless  tone — 

Music  of  thousand  tongues,  formed  by  one 
tongue  alone. 


O charming  creature  rare ! 

Can  aught  with  thee  compare  ? 

Thou  art  all  song — thy  breast 
Thrills  for  one  month  o’  th’  year — is  tranquil 
all  the  rest. 

Thee  wondrous  we  may  call — 

Most  wondrous  this  of  all, 

That  such  a tiny  throat 
Should  wake  so  loud  a sound,  and  pour  sc 
loud  a note. 

Maria  Tesselschade  Yisscher.  (Dutch) 
Translation  of  John  Bowring. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Tiie  rose  looks  out  in  the  valley, 

And  thither  will  I go  ! 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  virgin  is  on  the  river  side, 

Culling  the  lemons  pale : 

Thither — yes ! thither  will  I go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  fairest  fruit  her  hand  hath  culled, 

’Tis  for  her  lover  all : 

Thither — yes ! thither  will  I go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale, 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

In  her  hat  of  straw,  for  her  gentle  swain, 
She  has  placed  the  lemons  pale : 

Thither — yes ! thither  will  I go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

Gil  Yicente.  (Portuguese) 
Translation  of  John  Bowring. 


TIIE  MOTHER  NIGHTINGALE. 

I have  seen  a nightingale 
On  a sprig  of  thyme  bewail, 

Seeing  the  dear  nest,  which  wai- 
Hers  alone,  borne  off,  alas ! 

By  a laborer ; I heard, 

For  this  outrage,  the  poor  bird 


58 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Say  a thousand  mournful  things 
To  the  wind,  which,  on  its  wings, 

From  her  to  the  guardian  of  the  sky, 
Bore  her  melancholy  cry — 

Bore  her  tender  tears.  She  spake 
As  if  her  fond  heart  wonld  break : 

One  while,  in  a sad,  sweet  note, 

Gurgled  from  her  straining  throat, 

She  enforced  her  piteous  tale, 

Mournful  prayer,  and  plaintive  wail ; 
One  while,  with  the  shrill  dispnte 
Quite  outwearied,  she  was  mute ; 

Then  afresh,  for  her  dear  brood, 

Her  harmonious  shrieks  renewed. 

How  she  winged  it  round  and  round ; 
How  she  skimmed  along  the  ground ; 
How,  from  hough  to  bough,  in  haste, 
The  delighted  robber  chased, 

And,  alighting  in  his  path, 

Seemed  to  say,  ’twixt  grief  and  wrath, 

“ Give  me  hack,  fierce  rustic  rude — 
Give  me  hack  my  pretty  brood ! ” 

And  I saw  the  rustic  still 
Answered,  “ That,  I never  will ! ” 

Estevax  Maxttel  de  Yillegas.  (Spanish) 

Translation  of  J.  H.  W iffex. 

THE  HIGHTIHGALE’S  DEPARTURE. 

Sweet  poet  of  the  woods — a long  adieu ! 

Farewell,  soft  minstrel  of  the  early  year ! 

Ah ! ’t  will  be  long  ere  thou  shalt  sing  anew, 

And  pour  thy  music  on  “ the  night’s  dull 
ear.” 

Whether  on  Spring  thy  wandering  flights 
await, 

Or  whether  silent  in  our  groves  you  dwell, 

The  pensive  Muse  shall  own  thee  for  her 
mate, 

And  still  protect  the  song  she  loves  so  well. 

With  cautious  step  the  love-lorn  youth  shall 
glide 

Through  the  long  brake  that  shades  thy 
mossy  nest ; 

And  shepherd  girls  from  eyes  profane  shall 
hide 

The  gentle  bird  who  sings  of  pity  best : 

For  still  thy  voice  shall  soft  affections  move, 

And  still  he  dear  to  sorrow,  and  to  love ! 

Charlotte  Smith. 


TO  A WATERFOWL. 

Whitheb,  ’midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  o i 
day, 

Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou 
pursue 

Thy  solitary  way ! 

Yainly  the  fowler’s  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee 
wrong, 

As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek’st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 

Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 
On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned. 

At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 
Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 

Soon  shalt  thou  find  a summer  home,  and 
rest, 

And  scream  among  thy  fellows ; reeds  shall 
bend, 

Soon,  o’er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou’rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my 
heart 

Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 
And  shall  not  soon  depart : 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 
flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

"William  Cullex  Betaxt. 


SUMMER. 


59 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  GRASS. 

Heke  I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where ; 
By  the  (lusty  roadside, 

On  the  sunny  hill-side, 

Close  by  the  noisy  brook, 

In  every  shady  nook, 

I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where. 

Here  I come  creeping,  smiling  every  where ; 
All  round  the  open  door, 

Where  sit  the  aged  poor ; 

Here  where  the  children  play, 

In  the  bright  and  merry  May, 

I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where. 

Here  I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where ; 
In  the  noisy  city  street 
My  pleasant  face  you’ll  meet, 

Cheering  the  sick  at  heart 
Toiling  his  busy  part — 

Silently  creeping,  creeping  every  where. 

Here  I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where ; 
You  cannot  see  me  coming, 

Nor  hear  my  low  sweet  humming ; 
For  in  the  starry  night, 

And  the  glad  morning  light, 

I come  quietly  creeping  every  where. 

Here  I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where ; 
More  welcome  than  the  flowers 
In  Summer’s  pleasant  hours ; 

The  gentle  cow  is  glad, 

And  the  merry  bird  not  sad, 

To  see  me  creeping,  creeping  every  where. 

Here  I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where ; 
When  you  ’re  numbered  with  the  dead 
In  your  still  and  narrow  bed, 

In  the  happy  Spring  I ’ll  come 
And  deck  your  silent  home — 
Creeping,  silently  creeping  every  where. 

Here  I come  creeping,  creeping  every  where ; 
My  humble  song  of  praise 
Most  joyfully  I raise 
To  Him  at  whose  command 
I beautify  the  land, 

Creeping,  silently  creeping  every  where. 

Sabah  Roberts. 


JULY. 

Loud  is  the  Summer’s  busy  song, 

The  smallest  breeze  can  find  a tongue, 
While  insects  of  each  tiny  size 
Grow  teasing  with  their  melodies, 

Till  noon  burns  with  its  blistering  breath 
Around,  and  day  lies  still  as  death. 

The  busy  noise  of  man  and  brute 
Is  on  a sudden  lost  and  mute ; 

Even  the  brook  that  leaps  along, 

Seems  weary  of  its  bubbling  song, 

And,  so  soft  its  waters  creep, 

Tired  silence  sinks  in  sounder  sleep ; 

The  cricket  on  its  bank  is  dumb  ; 

The  very  flies  forget  to  hum  ; 

And,  save  the  wagon  rocking  round, 

The  landscape  sleeps  without  a sound. 

The  breeze  is  stopped,  the  lazy  bough 
Hath  not  a leaf  that  danceth  now ; 

The  taller  grass  upon  the  hill, 

And  spider’s  threads,  are  standing  still ; 
The  feathers,  dropped  from  moorhen’s  wing 
Which  to  the  water’s  surface  cling, 

Are  steadfast,  and  as  heavy  seem 
As  stones  beneath  them  in  the  stream  ; 

Hawkweed  and  groundsel’s  fanny  downs 
Unruffled  keep  their  seedy  crowns ; 

And  in  the  over-heated  air 

Hot  one  light  thing  is  floating  there, 

Save  that  to  the  earnest  eye 

The  restless  heat  seems  twittering  by. 

Moon  swoons  beneath  the  heat  it  made, 
And  flowers  e’en  within  the  shade  ; 

Until  the  sun  slopes  in  the  west, 

Like  weary  traveller,  glad  to  rest 
On  pillowed  clouds  of  many  hues. 

Then  Mature’s  voice  its  joy  renews, 

And  checkered  field  and  grassy  plain 
Hum  with  their  summer  songs  again, 

A requiem  to  the  day’s  decline, 

Whose  setting  sunbeams  coolly  shine 
As  welcome  to  day’s  feeble  powers 
As  falling  dews  to  thirsty  flowers. 

John  Clare. 


CO  POEMS  OF 


SONG. 

Undek  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird’s  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 

But  Winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i’  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 

But  Winter  and  rough  weather. 

Shakespeare. 


THE  GREENWOOD. 

Oh!  when ’t is  summer  weather, 

And  the  yellow  bee,  with  fairy  sound, 

The  waters  clear  is  humming  round, 

And  the  cuckoo  sings  unseen, 

And  the  leaves  are  waving  green — 

Oh  ! then ’t  is  sweet, 

In  some  retreat, 

To  hear  the  murmuring  dove, 

With  those  whom  on  earth  alone  we  love, 
And  to  wind  through  the  greenwood  together. 

But  when ’t  is  winter  weather, 

And  crosses  grieve, 

And  friends  deceive, 

And  rain  and  sleet 
The  lattice  beat, — 

Oh!  then ’t is  sweet 
To  sit  and  sing 

Of  the  friends  with  whom,  in  the  days  of 
Spring, 

We  roamed  through  the  greenwood  together. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


NATURE. 


COME  TO  THESE  SCENES  OF  PEACE 

Come  to  these  scenes  of  peace, 

Where,  to  rivers  murmuring, 

The  sweet  birds  all  the  Summer  sing, 
Where  cares,  and  toil,  and  sadness  cease ! 
Stranger,  does  thy  heart  deplore 
Friends  whom  thou  wilt  see  no  more? 
Does  thy  wounded  spirit  prove 
Pangs  of  hopeless,  severed  love  ? 

Thee,  the  stream  that  gushes  clear — 
Thee,  the  birds  that  carol  near 
Shall  soothe,  as  silent  thou  dost  lie 
And  dream  of  their  wild  lullaby ; 

Come  to  bless  these  scenes  of  peace, 
Where  cares,  and  toil,  and  sadness  cease. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


THE  GARDEN. 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze, 

To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays : 

And  their  incessant  labors  see 
Crowned  from  some  single  herb,  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid ; 

While  all  the  flowers,  and  trees,  do  close, 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I found  thee  here, 

And  Innocence,  thy  sister  dear  ? 

Mistaken  long,  I sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men. 

Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 

Only  among  the  plants  will  grow 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 

Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 

Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress’  name 
Little,  alas ! they  know  or  heed, 

How  far  these  beauties  her  exceed ! 

Fair  trees ! where’er  your  barks  I wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found. 

When  we  have  run  our  passion’s  heat, 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat. 


THE  GARDEN. 


61 


The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 

Still  in  a tree  did  end  their  race. 

Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so, 

Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow : 

And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed, 

Not  as  a nymph,  but  for  a reed. 

What  wondrous  life  in  this  I lead ! 

Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head ; 

The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine ; 

The  nectarine,  and  curious  peach, 

Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I pass, 

Insnared  with  flowers,  I fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 
Withdraws  into  its  happiness. 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 
Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find ; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds  and  other  seas ; 

Annihilating  all  that ’s  made 

To  a green  thought  in  a green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain’s  sliding  foot, 

Or  at  some  fruit-tree’s  mossy  root, 

Casting  the  body’s  vest  aside, 

My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  ; 

There,  like  a bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 

Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 

And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 

Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  the  happy  garden  state, 

While  man  there  walked  without  a mate  : 
After  a place  so  pure  and  sweet, 

What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet ! 

But ’t  was  beyond  a mortal’s  share 
To  wander  solitary  there : 

Two  paradises  are  in  one, 

To  live  in  paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gard’ner  drew 
Of  flowers,  and  herbs,  this  dial  new ! 

Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a fragrant  zodiac  run : 

And,  as  it  works,  th’  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 

How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckoned,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ? 

Andrew  Marvell. 


THE  GARDEN. 

Happy  art  thou,  whom  God  does  bless, 
With  the  full  choice  of  thine  own  happiness ; 
And  happier  yet,  because  thou  ’rt  blest 
With  prudence,  how  to  choose  the  best : 

In  books  and  gardens  thou  hast  placed  aright 
(Things,  which  thou  well  dost  understand ; 
And  both  dost  make  with  thy  laborious  hand) 
Thy  noble,  innocent  delight ; 

And  in  thy  virtuous  wife,  where  thou  again 
dost  meet 

Both  pleasures  more  refined  and  sweet ; 
The  fairest  garden  in  her  looks, 

And  in  her  mind  the  wisest  books. 

Oh,  who  would  change  these  soft,  yet  solid 
joys, 

For  empty  shows  and  senseless  noise ; 

And  all  which  rank  ambition  breeds, 
Which  seems  such  beauteous  flowers,  and  are 
such  poisonous  weeds  ? 

When  God  did  man  to  his  own  likeness  make, 
As  much  as  clay,  though  of  the  purest  kind, 
By  the  great  potter’s  art  refined, 

Could  the  divine  impression  take, 

He  thought  it  fit  to  place  him,  where 
A kind  of  Heaven  too  did  appear, 

As  far  as  Earth  could  such  a likeness  bear : 
That  man  no  happiness  might  want, 

Which  Earth  to  her  first  master  could  afford, 
He  did  a garden  for  him  plant 
By  the  quick  hand  of  his  omnipotent  word. 
As  the  chief  help  and  joy  of  human  life, 

He  gave  him  the  first  gift ; first,  even  before 
a wife. 

For  God,  the  universal  architect 
’T  had  been  as  easy  to  erect 
A Louvre  or  Escurial,  or  a tower 
That  might  with  Heaven  communication  hold, 
As  Babel  vainly  thought  to  do  of  old : 

He  wanted  not  the  skill  or  power ; 

In  the  world’s  fabric  those  were  shown, 
And  the  materials  were  all  his  own. 

But  well  he  knew,  what  place  would  best 
agree 

With  innocence  and  with  felicity ; 

And  we  elsewhere  still  seek  for  them  in  vain; 
If  any  part  of  either  yet  remain, 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


If  any  part  of  either  we  expect, 

This  may  our  judgment  in  the  search  direct ; 
God  the  first  garden  made,  and  the  first  city 
Cain. 

O blessed  shades ! O gentle  cool  retreat 
From  all  th’  immoderate  heat, 

In  which  the  frantic  world  does  burn  and 
sweat ! 

This  does  the  Lion-star,  ambition’s  rage  ; 

This  avarice,  the  Dog-star’s  thirst,  assuage  ; 
Every  where  else  their  fatal  power  we  see ; 
They  make  and  rule  man’s  wretched  destiny : 
They  neither  set,  nor  disappear, 

But  tyrannize  o’er  all  the  year ; 

Whilst  we  ne’er  feel  their  flame  or  influence 
here. 

The  birds  that  dance  from  bough  to  bough, 
And  sing  above  in  every  tree, 

Are  not  from  fears  and  cares  more  free 
Than  we,  who  lie,  or  sit,  or  walk,  below, 

And  should  by  right  be  singers  too. 

What  prince’s  choir  of  music  can  excel 
That,  which  within  this  shade  does  dwell  ? 

To  which  we  nothing  pay  or  give  ; 

They,  like  all  other  poets,  live 
Without  reward,  or  thanks  for  their  obliging 
pains : 

’T  is  well  if  they  become  not  prey : 

The  whistling  winds  add  their  less  artful 
strains, 

And  a grave  bass  the  murmuring  fountains 
play; 

Nature  does  all  this  harmony  bestow, 

But  to  our  plants,  art’s  music  too, 

The  pipe,  theorbo,  and  guitar,  we  owe ; 

The  lute  itself,  which  once  was  green  and 
mute, 

When  Orpheus  strook  th’  inspired  lute, 

The  trees  danced  round,  and  understood 
By  sympathy  the  voice  of  wood. 

These  are  the  spells,  that  to  kind  sleep  invite, 
And  nothing  does  within  resistance  make, 
Which  yet  we  moderately  take  ; 

Who  would  not  choose  to  be  awake, 

While  he ’s  encompast  round  with  such  de- 
light, 

To  th’  ear,  the  nose,  the  touch,  the  taste,  and 
sight ! 


When  Venus  would  her  dear  Ascanius  keep 
A prisoner  in  the  downy  bands  of  sleep, 

The  odorous  herbs  and  flowers  beneath  him 
spread, 

As  the  most  soft  and  sweetest  bed ; 

Not  her  own  lap  would  more  have  charmed 
his  head. 

Who,  that  has  reason  and  his  smell, 

Would  not  among  roses  and  jasmine  dwell, 
Rather  than  all  his  spirits  choke, 

With  exhalations  of  dirt  and  smoke, 

And  all  th’  uncleanness  which  does  drown, 
In  pestilential  clouds,  a populous  town  ? 

The  earth  itself  breathes  better  perfumes 
here, 

Than  all  the  female  men,  or  women,  there 
Not  without  cause,  about  them  bear. 

When  Epicurus  to  the  world  had  taught, 
That  pleasure  was  the  chiefest  good, 

(And  was,  perhaps,  i’  th’  right,  if  rightly  un- 
derstood) 

His  life  he  to  his  doctrine  brought, 

And  in  a garden’s  shade  that  sovereign  plea- 
sure sought : 

Whoever  a true  epicure  would  be, 

May  there  find  cheap  and  virtuous  luxury. 
Vitellius’s  table,  which  did  hold 
As  many  creatures  as  the  ark  of  old ; 

That  fiscal  table,  to  which  every  day 
All  countries  did  a constant  tribute  pay, 
Could  nothing  more  delicious  afford 
Than  Nature’s  liberality, 

Helped  with  a little  art  and  industry, 

Allows  the  meanest  gardener’s  board. 

The  wanton  taste  no  fish  or  fowl  can  choose, 
For  which  the  grape  or  melon  she  would 
lose ; 

Though  all  th’  inhabitants  of  sea  and  air 
Be  listed  in  the  glutton’s  bill  of  fare, 

Yet  still  the  fruits  of  earth  we  see 
Placed  the  third  story  high  in  all  her  luxury. 

But  with  no  sense  the  garden  does  comply, 
None  courts,  or  flatters,  as  it  does,  the  eye. 
When  the  great  Hebrew  king  did  almost 
strain 

The  wondrous  treasures  of  his  wealth,  and 
brain, 

His  royal  southern  guest  to  entertain ; 


THE  GARDEN.  63 

Though  she  on  silver  floors  did  tread, 

With  bright  Assyrian  carpets  on  them  spread, 
To  hide  the  metal’s  poverty  ; 

Though  she  look’d  up  to  roofs  of  gold, 

And  nought  around  her  could  behold 
But  silk,  and  rich  embroidery, 

And  Babylonish  tapestry, 

And  wealthy  Hiram’s  princely  dye  ; 
Though  Ophir’s  starry  stones  met  every 
where  her  eye ; 

Though  she  herself  and  her  gay  host  were 
drest 

With  all  the  shining  glories  of  the  East ; 
When  lavish  Art  her  costly  work  had  done, 
The  honor  and  the  prize  of  bravery 
Was  by  the  garden  from  the  palace  won 
And  every  rose  and  lily  there  did  stand 
Better  attired  by  Nature’s  hand. 

The  case  thus  judged  against  the  king  we  see, 
By  one,  that  would  not  be  so  rich,  though 
wiser  far  than  he. 

Nor  does  this  happy  place  only  dispense 
Such  various  pleasures  to  the  sense ; 

Here  health  itself  does  live, 

That  salt  of  life  which  does  to  all  a relish  give, 
Its  standing  pleasure  and  intrinsic  wealth, 
The  body’s  virtue  and  the  soul’s  good-for- 
tune, health. 

The  tree  of  life,  when  it  in  Eden  stood, 

Did  its  immortal  head  to  Heaven  rear ; 

It  lasted  a tall  cedar,  till  the  flood ; 

Now  a small  thorny  shrub  it  does  appear ; 
Nor  will  it  thrive  too  every  where: 

It  always  here  is  freshest  seen, 

’Tis  only  here  an  evergreen. 

If,  through  the  strong  and  beauteous  fence 
Of  temperance  and  innocence, 

And  wholesome  labors,  and  a quiet  mind, 
Any  diseases  passage  find, 

They  must  not  think  here  to  assail 
A land  unarmed  or  without  a guard  ; 

They  must  fight  for  it,  and  dispute  it  hard, 
Before  they  can  prevail : 

Scarce  any  plant  is  growing  here, 

Which  against  death  some  weapon  does  not 
bear. 

Let  cities  boast  that  they  provide 
For  life  the  ornaments  of  pride  ; 

But  ’tis  the  country  and  the  field, 

That  furnish  it  with  staff  and  shield. 

Where  does  the  wisdom  and  the  power  divine 
In  a more  bright  and  sweet  reflection  shine  ? 
Where  do  we  finer  strokes  and  colors  see 
Of  the  Creator’s  real  poetry, 

Than  when  we  with  attention  look 
Upon  the  third  day’s  volume  of  the  book  ? 

If  we  could  open  and  intend  our  eye, 

We  all,  like  Moses,  should  espy 
Ev’n  in  a bush  the  radiant  Deity. 

But  we  despise  these,  his  inferior  ways, 
(Though  no  less  full  of  miracle  and  praise.) 

Upon  the  flowers  of  Heaven  we  gaze  ; 

The  stars  of  Earth  no  wonder  in  us  raise ; 
Though  these  perhaps  do,  more  than  they, 
The  life  of  mankind  sway. 

Although  no  part  of  mighty  Nature  be 
More  stored  with  beauty,  power  and  mystery; 
Yet,  to  encourage  human  industry, 

God  has  so  ordered,  that  no  other  part 
Such  space  and  such  dominion  leaves  for  Art. 

We  nowhere  Art  do  so  triumphant  see, 

As  when  it  grafts  or  buds  the  tree. 

In  other  things  we  count  it  to  excel, 

If  it  a docile  scholar  can  appear 
To  Nature,  and  but  imitate  her  well ; 

It  over-rules  and  is  her  master,  here. 

It  imitates  her  Maker’s  power  divine, 

And  changes  her  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
does  refine. 

It  does,  like  grace,  the  fallen  tree  restore 
To  its  blest  state  of  Paradise  before. 

Who  would  not  joy  to  see  his  conquering  hand 
O’er  all  the  vegetable  world  command  ? 

And  the  wild  giants  of  the  wood  receive 
What  law  he ’s  pleased  to  give  ? 

He  bids  th’  ill-natured  crab  produce 
The  gentle  apple’s  winy  juice, 

The  golden  fruit  that  worthy  is 
Of  Galatea’s  purple  kiss. 

He  does  the  savage  hawthorn  teach 
To  bear  the  medlar  and  the  pear  ; 

He  bids  the  rustic  plum  to  rear 
A noble  trunk,  and  be  a peach. 

Ev’n  Daphne’s  coyness  he  does  mock, 

And  weds  the  cherry  to  her  stock, 

Though  she  refused  Apollo’s  suit ; 

Ev’n  she,  that  chaste  and  virgin  tree, 

Now  wonders  at  herself,  to  see 
That  she’s  a mother  made,  and  blushes  in  her 
fruit 

64 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Methinks  I see  great  Dioclesian  walk 
In  the  Salonian  garden’s  noble  shade, 

Which  by  his  own  imperial  hands  was  made. 
I see  him  smile,  methinks,  as  he  does  talk 
With  the  ambassadors,  who  come  in  vain 
T’  entice  him  to  a throne  again. 

“ If  I,  my  friends,”  (said  he,)  “should  to  you 
show 

All  the  delights  which  in  these  gardens  grow, 
’Tis  likelier,  much,  that  you  should  with  me 
stay, 

Than  ’tis  that  you  should  carry  me  away ; 
And  trust  me  not,  my  friends,  if  every  day, 

I walk  not  here  with  more  delight 
Than  ever,  after  the  most  happy  sight, 

In  triumph  to  the  Capitol  I rode 
To  thank  the  gods,  and  to  he  thought  myself 
almost  a god.” 

Abeaham  Cowley. 


INSCRIPTION  IN  A HERMITAGE. 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined, 

I soothe  to  peace  my  pensive  mind; 

And  while,  to  shade  my  lowly  cave, 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage  wave ; 
And  while  the  maple  dish  is  mine — 

The  beechen  cup,  unstained  with  wine — 
I scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd, 

Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

Within  my  limits,  lone  and  still, 

The  black-bird  pipes  in  artless  trill ; 

Fast  by  my  couch,  congenial  guest, 

The  wren  has  wove  her  mossy  nest ; 
From  busy  scenes,  and  brighter  skies, 

To  lurk  with  innocence,  she  flies, 

Here  hopes  in  safe  repose  to  dwell, 

Nor  aught  suspects  the  sylvan  cell. 

At  morn  I take  my  customed  round, 

To  mark  how  buds  yon  shrubby  mound, 
And  every  opening  primrose  count, 

That  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount ; 
Or  o’er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude, 
That  grace  my  gloomy  solitude, 

I teach  in  winding  wreaths  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy’s  gadding  spray. 


At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I ope  my  brass-embossed  book, 

Portrayed  with  many  a holy  deed 
Of  martyrs,  crowned  with  heavenly  meed. 
Then,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim, 

Chant,  ere  I sleep,  my  measured  hymn, 
And  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold 
Of  parting  wings,  be-dropt  with  gold. 

While  such  pure  joys  my  bliss  create, 

Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state  ? 

Who  but  would  wish  his  holy  lot 
In  calm  oblivion’s  humble  grot  ? 

Who  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away, 

To  take  my  staff,  and  amice  gray ; 

And  to  the  world’s  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  blameless  hermitage  ? 

Thomas  Waeton. 


THE  RETIREMENT. 

Fa ee well,  thou  busy  world,  and  may 
We  never  meet  again  ; 

Here  I can  eat,  and  sleep,  and  pray, 

And  do  more  good  in  one  short  day, 

Than  he  who  his  whole  age  out- wears 
Upon  the  most  conspicuous  theatres, 

Where  nought  but  vanity  and  vice  appears. 

Good  God!  how  sweet  are  all  things  here! 
How  beautiful  the  fields  appear ! 

How  cleanly  do  we  feed  and  lie ! 

Lord ! what  good  hours  do  we  keep ! 

How  quietly  we  sleep ! 

What  peace,  what  unanimity ! 

How  innocent  from  the  lewd  fashion, 

Is  all  our  business,  all  our  recreation ! 

Oh,  how  happy  here ’s  our  leisure ! 

Oh,  how  innocent  our  pleasure ! 

O ye  valleys ! O ye  mountains ! 

0 ye  groves,  and  crystal  fountains ! 

How  I love,  at  liberty, 

By  turns  to  come  and  visit  ye ! 

Dear  solitude,  the  soul’s  best  friend, 

That  man  acquainted  with  himself  dost  make, 
And  all  his  Maker’s  wonders  to  intend. 


THE  MID-DAY  DREAM. 


With  thee  I here  converse  at  will, 

And  would  be  glad  to  do  so  still, 

For  it  is  thou  alone  that  keep’st  the  soul 
awake. 

How  calm  and  quiet  a delight 
Is  it,  alone 

To  read,  and  meditate,  and  write, 

By  none  offended,  and  offending  none! 
To  walk,  ride,  sit,  or  sleep  at  one’s  own 
ease ; 

And,  pleasing  a man’s  self,  none  other  to 
displease. 

0 my  beloved  nymph,  fair  Dove, 

Princess  of  rivers,  how  I love 

Upon  thy  flowery  banks  to  lie, 

And  view  thy  silver  stream, 

When  gilded  by  a Summer’s  beam ! 

And  in  it  all  thy  wanton  fry 
Playing  at  liberty, 

And,  with  my  angle,  upon  them, 

The  all  of  treachery 

1 ever  learned  industriously  to  try ! 

Such  streams  Rome’s  yellow  Tiber  cannot 
show, 

The  Iberian  Tagus,  or  Ligurian  Po  ; 

The  Maese,  the  Danube,  and  the  Rhine, 

Are  puddle-water,  all,  compared  with  thine  ; 
And  Loire’s  pure  streams  yet  too  polluted  are 
With  thine,  much  purer,  to  compare; 

The  rapid  Garonne  and  the  winding  Seine 
Are  both  too  mean, 

Beloved  Dove,  with  thee 
To  vie  priority ; 

Hay,  Tame  and  Isis,  when  conjoined,  submit, 
And  lay  their  trophies  at  thy  silver  feet. 

0 my  beloved  rocks,  that  rise 
To  awe  the  earth  and  brave  the  skies ! 

From  some  aspiring  mountain’s  crown 
How  dearly  do  I love, 

Giddy  with  x>leasure,  to  look  down ; 

And,  from  the  vales,  to  view  the  noble  heights 
above ; 

0 my  beloved  caves ! from  dog-star’s  heat, 
And  all  anxieties,  my  safe  retreat ; 

What  safety,  privacy,  what  true  delight, 

In  the  artificial  night 


6t 

Your  gloomy  entrails  make, 

Have  I taken,  do  I take ! 

How  oft,  when  grief  has  made  me  fly, 

To  hide  me  from  society 

E’en  of  my  dearest  friends,  have  I, 

In  your  recesses’  friendly  shade, 

All  my  sorrows  open  laid, 

And  my  most  secret  woes  intrusted  to  your 
privacy ! 

Lord ! would  men  let  me  alone, 

What  an  over-happy  one 

Should  I think  myself  to  be — 

Might  I in  this  desert  place, 

(Which  most  men  in  discourse  disgrace,) 
Live  but  undisturbed  and  free ! 

Here,  in  this  despised  recess, 

Would  I,  maugre  Winter’s  cold, 

And  the  Summer’s  worst  excess, 

Try  to  live  out  to  sixty  full  years  old ; 

And,  all  the  while, 

Without  an  envious  eye 
On  any  thriving  under  Fortune’s  smile, 
Contented  live,  and  then  contented  die. 

Charles  Cotton. 


REYE  DU  MIDI. 

When  o’er  the  mountain  steeps 
The  hazy  noon-tide  creeps, 

And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 
Under  the  grass ; 

When  soft  the  shadows  lie, 

And  clouds  sail  o’er  the  sky, 

And  the  idle  winds  go  by, 

With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they 
pass — 

Then  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a dream, 

And  the  water-lilies  gleam 
Up  to  the  sun ; 

When  the  hot  and  burdened  day 
Rests  on  its  downward  way, 

When  the  moth  forgets  to  play 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  work 
is  done — 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


66 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar, 

Like  some  forgotten  star 
Dropt  from  the  sky — 

The  sounds  of  love  and  fear, 

All  voices  sad  and  clear, 

Banished  to  silence  drear — 

The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I lie. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale, 

Till  the  rose’s  lips  grow  pale 
With  her  sighs ; 

And  o’er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanished  past, 

Glories  that  faded  fast, 

Renewed  to  splendor  in  my  dreaming  eyes. 

As  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 

Where  its  sweet  treasure  swings, 
The  honey-lover  clings 
To  the  red  flowers — 

So,  lost  in  vivid  light, 

So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 

I linger  in  delight, 

Enraptured  o’er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 

Rose  Tekby. 


HYMN  TO  PAN. 

0 thou,  whose  mighty  palace  roof  doth  hang 
From  jagged  trunks,  and  overshadoweth 
Eternal  whispers,  glooms,  the  birth,  life,  death 
Of  unseen  flowers  in  heavy  peacefulness ; 
Who  lovest  to  see  the  Hamadryads  dress 
Their  ruffled  locks  where  meeting  hazels 
darken ; 

And  through  whole  solemn  hours  dost  sit 
and  hearken 

The  dreary  melody  of  bedded  reeds 
In  desolate  places,  where  dank  moisture 
breeds 

The  pipy  hemlock  to  strange  overgrowth, 
Bethinking  thee,  how  melancholy  loth 
Thou  wast  to  lose  fair  Syrinx — do  thou  now, 
By  thy  love’s  milky  brow  ! 

By  all  the  trembling  mazes  that  she  ran, 
Hear  us,  great  Pan ! 


0 thou,  for  whose  soul-soothing  quiet,  turtle5! 
Passion  their  voices  cooingly  ’mong  myrtles, 
What  time  thou  wanderest  at  eventide 
Through  sunny  meadows,  that  outskirt  the 
side 

Of  thine  enmossed  realms ! O thou,  to  whom 
Broad-leaved  fig-trees  even  now  foredoom 
Their  ripened  fruitage ; yellow-girted  bees 
Their  golden  honeycombs ; our  village  leas 
Their  fairest  blossomed  beans  and  poppied 
corn ; 

The  chuckling  linnet  its  five  young  unborn, 
To  sing  for  thee ; low-creeping  strawberries 
Their  summer  coolness ; pent-up  butterflies 
Their  freckled  wings ; yea,  the  fresh-budding 
year 

All  its  completions — be  quickly  near, 

By  every  wind  that  nods  the  mountain  pine, 
O forester  divine ! 

Thou,  to  whom  every  faun  and  satyr  flies 
For  willing  service ; whether  to  surprise 
The  squatted  hare  while  in  half-sleeping  fit ; 
Or  upward  ragged  precipices  flit 
To  save  poor  lambkins  from  the  eagle’s  maw ; 
Or  by  mysterious  enticement  draw 
Bewildered  shepherds  to  their  path  again ; 
Or  to  tread  breathless  round  the  frothy  main, 
And  gather  up  all  fancifullest  shells 
For  thee  to  tumble  into  Naiads’  cells, 

And,  being  hidden,  laugh  at  their  out-peep- 
ing; 

Or  to  delight  thee  with  fantastic  leaping, 

The  while  they  pelt  each  other  on  the  crown 
With  silvery  oak-apples,  and  fir-cones  brown ! 
By  all  the  echoes  that  about  thee  ring, 

Hear  us,  O satyr  king ! 

0 Hearkener  to  the  loud-clapping  shears, 
While  ever  and  anon  to  his  shorn  peers 
A ram  goes  bleating ! Winder  of  the  horn, 
When  snouted  wild-boars,  routing  tender  corn, 
Anger  our  huntsmen ! Breather  round  our 
farms, 

To  keep  off  mildews,  and  all  weather  harms ! 
Strange  ministrant  of  undescribed  sounds, 
That  come  a-swooning  over  hollow  grounds, 
And  wither  drearily  on  barren  moors ! 

Dread  opener  of  the  mysterious  doors 
Leading  to  universal  knowledge — see, 

Great  son  of  Dryope, 


PAN  AND  THE  NYMPHS.  67 


SONG  OF  WOOD-NYMPHS. 


The  many  that  are  come  to  pay  their  vows 
With  leaves  about  their  brows ! 

Be  still  the  unimaginable  lodge 
For  solitary  thinkings — such  as  dodge 
Conception  to  the  very  bourne  of  heaven, 
Then  leave  the  naked  brain  ; be  still  the 
leaven 

That,  spreading  in  this  dull  and  clodded  earth, 
Gives  it  a touch  ethereal — a new  birth ; 

Be  still  a symbol  of  immensity  ; 

A firmament  reflected  in  a sea ; 

An  element  filling  the  space  between ; 

An  unknown — but  no  more  : we  humbly 
screen 

With  uplift  hands  our  foreheads,  lowly  bend- 
ing, 

And,  giving  out  a shout  most  heaven-rending. 
Conjure  thee  to  receive  our  humble  paean, 
Upon  thy  Mount  Lycean ! 

John  Keats. 


TO  PAN. 

All  ye  woods,  and  trees,  and  bowers, 
All  ye  virtues  and  ye  powers 
That  inhabit  in  the  lakes, 

In  the  pleasant  springs  or  brakes, 
Move  your  feet 
To  our  sound, 

Whilst  we  greet 
All  this  ground, 

With  his  honor  and  his  name 
That  defends  our  flocks  from  blame. 

He  is  great,  and  he  is  just, 

He  is  ever  good,  and  must 
Thus  be  honored.  Daffodillies, 

Roses,  pinks,  and  loved  lilies, 

Let  us  fling, 

Whilst  we  sing, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  holy, 

Ever  honored,  ever  young ! 

Thus  great  Pan  is  ever  sung. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


Come  here,  come  here,  and  dwell 
In  forest  deep ! 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  tell 
Why  thou  dost  weep ! 

Is  it  for  love  (sweet  pain !) 

That  thus  thou  dar’st  complain 

Unto  our  pleasant  shades,  our  summer  leaves, 

Where  nought  else  grieves  ? 

Come  here,  come  here,  and  lie 
By  whispering  stream ! 

Here  no  one  dares  to  die 
For  love’s  sweet  dream ; 

But  health  all  seek,  and  joy, 

And  shun  perverse  annoy, 

And  race  along  green  paths  till  close  of  day, 
And  laugh — alway ! 

Or  else,  through  half  the  year, 

On  rushy  floor, 

We  lie  by  waters  clear, 

While  sky-larks  pour 
Their  songs  into  the  sun ! 

And  when  bright  day  is  done, 

We  hide  ’neath  bells  of  flowers  or  nodding 
corn, 

And  dream — till  morn ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE  BIRCH-TREE. 

Rippling  through  thy  branches  goes  the  sun- 
shine, 

Among  thy  leaves  that  palpitate  for  ever  ; 

Ovid  in  thee  a pining  Nymph  had  prisoned, 

The  soul  once  of  some  tremulous  inland  river, 

Quivering  to  tell  her  woe,  but,  ah ! dumb, 
dumb  for  ever ! 

While  all  the  forest,  witched  with  slumber- 
ous moonshine, 

Holds  up  its  leaves  in  happy,  happy  silence, 

Waiting  the  dew,  with  breath  and  pulse  sus- 
pended,— 

I hear  afar  thy  whispering,  gleamy  islands, 

And  track  thee  wakeful  still  amid  the  wide- 
hung  silence. 


68  POEMS  OF 

NATURE. 

Upon  the  brink  of  some  wood-nestled  lakelet, 

There,  lightly  swung,  in  bowery  glades, 

Thy  foliage,  like  the  tresses  of  a Dryad, 

The  honey-suckles  twine ; 

Dripping  about  thy  slim  white  stem,  whose 

There  blooms  the  rose-red  campion, 

shadow 

And  the  dark-blue  columbine. 

Slopes  quivering  down  the  water’s  dnsky 
qniet, 

There  grows  the  four-leaved  plant,  “ truo 

Thou  shrink’st  as  on  her  bath’s  edge  would 

love,” 

some  startled  Dryad. 

In  some  dusk  woodland  spot  * 

Thou  art  the  go-between  of  rustic  lovers ; 

There  grows  the  enchanter's  night-shade, 
And  the  wood  forget-me-not. 

Thy  white  bark  has  their  secrets  in  its  keep- 
ing; 

And  many  a merry  bird  is  there, 

Reuben  writes  here  the  happy  name  of  Pa- 

Unscared  by  lawless  men ; 

tience, 

The  blue- winged  jay,  the  woodpecker, 

And  thy  lithe  boughs  hang  murmuring  and 

And  the  golden-crested  wren. 

weeping 

Above  her,  as  she  steals  the  mystery  from 

Come  down,  and  ye  shall  see  them  all, 

thy  keeping. 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 

Thou  art  to  me  like  my  beloved  maiden, 

For  their  sweet  life  of  pleasantness, 
It  is  not  to  be  told. 

So  frankly  coy,  so  full  of  trembly  confidences; 
Thy  shadow  scarce  seems  shade ; thy  patter- 

And  far  within  that  summer  wood, 

ing  leaflets 

Among  the  leaves  so  green, 

Sprinkle  their  gathered  sunshine  o’er  my 

There  flows  a little  gurgling  brook, 

senses, 

The  brightest  e’er  was  seen. 

And  Nature  gives  me  all  her  summer  con- 
fidences. 

There  come  the  little  gentle  birds, 

Whether  my  heart  with  hope  or  sorrow 

Without  a fear  of  ill ; 

Down  to  the  murmuring  water’s  edge 

tremble, 

And  freely  drink  their  fill ! 

Thou  sympathizest  still ; wild  and  unquiet, 
I fling  me  down,  thy  ripple,  like  a river, 

And  dash  about  and  splash  about, 

Flows  valleyward  where  calmness  is,  and 
by  it 

My  heart  is  floated  down  into  the  land  of 

The  merry  little  things ; 

And  look  askance  with  bright  black  eyes. 
And  flirt  their  dripping  wings. 

quiet. 

James  Etjssell  Lowell. 

SUMMER  WOODS. 

I’ve  seen  the  freakish  squirrels  drop 
Down  from  their  leafy  tree, 

The  little  squirrels  with  the  old, — 
Great  joy  it  was  to  me ! 

Come  ye  into  the  summer  woods ; 

And  down  unto  the  running  brook, 

There  entereth  no  annoy ; 

I’ve  seen  them  nimbly  go ; 

All  greenly  wave  the  chestnut  leaves, 

And  the  bright  water  seemed  to  speak 

And  the  earth  is  full  of  joy. 

A welcome  kind  and  low. 

I cannot  tell  you  half  the  sights 

The  nodding  plants  they  bowed  their  heads 

Of  beauty  you  may  see, 

As  if  in  heartsome  cheer  : 

The  bursts  of  golden  sunshine, 

They  spake  unto  these  little  things, 

And  many  a shady  tree. 

“ ’Tis  merry  living  here ! ” 

THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 


Oh,  how  my  heart  ran  o’er  with  joy ! 

I saw  that  all  was  good, 

And  how  we  might  glean  up  delight 
All  round  us,  if  we  would ! 

And  many  a wood-mouse  dwelleth  there, 
Beneath  the  old  wood  shade, 

And  all  day  long  has  work  to  do, 

Nor  is  of  aught  afraid. 

The  green  shoots  grow  above  their  heads, 
And  roots  so  fresh  and  fine 

Beneath  their  feet ; nor  is  there  strile 
’Mong  them  for  mine  and  thine. 

There  is  enough  for  every  one, 

And  they  lovingly  agree ; 

We  might  learn  a lesson,  all  of  us, 
Beneath  the  green- wood  tree. 

Mary  Howitt. 


WILLOW  SONG. 

Willow  ! in  thy  breezy  moan 
I can  hear  a deeper  tone ; 

Through  thy  leaves  come  whispering  low 
Faint  sweet  sounds  of  long  ago — • 

Willow,  sighing  willow ! 

Many  a mournful  tale  of  old 
Heart-sick  Love  to  thee  hath  told, 
Gathering  from  thy  golden  hough 
Leaves  to  cool  his  burning  brow — 

Willow,  sighing  willow ! 

Many  a swan-like  song  to  thee 
Hath  been  sung,  thou  gentle  tree ; 

Many  a lute  its  last  lament 
Down  thy  moonlight  stream  hath  sent — 
Willow,  sighing  willow ! 

Therefore,  wave  and  murmur  on, 

Sigh  for  sweet  affections  gone, 

And  for  tuneful  voices  fled, 

And  for  Love,  whose  heart  hath  bled, 

Ever,  willow,  willow ! 

Felicia  IIemanb. 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a pigeon  is  builded  well. 

In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 

Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air ; 

I love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 

With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 

And  I often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 

’Tis  a bird  I love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There’s  a human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 

And  I often  stop  with  the  fear  I feel — 

He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 
Chime  of  the  hour,  or  funeral  knell — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight 
moon, 

When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon, 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning 
light, 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  “nine  at 
night,” 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer, — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again,  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird  ! I would  that  I could  be 
A hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o’er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world,  and  soar  ; 

Or,  at  a half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I would  that,  in  such  wings  of  gold, 

I could  my  weary  heart  upfold ; 


70 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


I would  I could  look  down  unmoved, 
(Unloving  as  I am  unloved,) 

And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 
Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe ; 
And  never  sad  with  others’  sadness, 

And  never  glad  with  others’  gladness, 

Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 

And,  lapped  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


THE  FLY. 

OCCASIONED  BY  A ELY  DRINKING  OUT  OF  THE 
author’s  CUP. 

Busy,  curious,  thirsty  fly ! 

Drink  with  me,  and  drink  as  I ! 

Freely  welcome  to  my  cup, 

Couldst  thou  sip  and  sip  it  up  : 

Make  the  most  of  life  you  may ; 

Life  is  short  and  wears  away ! 

Both  alike,  both  mine  and  thine, 

Hasten  quick  to  their  decline ! 

Thine’s  a summer ; mine  no  more, 
Though  repeated  to  threescore ! 
Threescore  summers,  when  they’re  gone, 
Will  appear  as  show  as  one  ! 

Yincent  Bourne. 


THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 
In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 

The  dewy  morning’s  gentle  wine ! 
Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 

’Tis  filled  wherever  thou  dost  tread , 
Nature  self ’s  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 
Happier  than  the  happiest  king ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee ; 

All  that  summer  hours  produce, 
Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow  ; 
Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou  ! 


Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy ; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 
Prophet  of  the  ripened  year ! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 
Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect ! happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know ; 

But  when  thou  ’st  drunk,  and  danced,  and 
sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(V oluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal!) 

Sated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir’st  to  endless  rest. 

Anacreon.  (Greek) 

Translation  of  Abraham  Cowley. 


ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  songster,  perched  above, 

On  the  summit  of  the  grove, 

Whom  a dewdrop  cheers  to  sing 
With  the  freedom  of  a king  ! 

From  thy  perch  survey  the  fields, 
Where  prolific  Nature  yields 
Nought  that,  willingly  as  she, 

Man  surrenders  not  to  thee. 

For  hostility  or  hate 

None  thy  pleasures  can  create. 

Thee  it  satisfies  to  sing 
Sweetly  the  return  of  Spring ; 

Herald  of  the  genial  hours, 

Harming  neither  herbs  nor  flowers. 
Therefore  man  thy  voice  attends 
Gladly — thou  and  he  are  friends ; 

Nor  thy  never-ceasing  strains 
Phoebus  or  the  Muse  disdains 
As  too  simple  or  too  long, 

For  themselves  inspire  the  song. 
Earth-born,  bloodless,  undecaying, 
Ever  singing,  sporting,  playing, 

What  has  Nature  else  to  show 
Godlike  in  its  kind  as  thou  ? 

Anacreon.  (Greek) 
Translation  of  William  Cowper. 


SUMMER.  71 

A SOLILOQUY. 

In  summer  luxury, — he  has  never  done 
With  his  delights;  for,  when  tired  out  with 
fun, 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  CHIRPING  OF  A 

He  rests  at  ease  beneath  some  pleasant  weed. 
The  poetry  of  earth  is  ceasing  never. 

GRASSHOPPER. 

On  a lone  winter  evening,  when  the  frost 

Happy  insect ! ever  blest 

Has  wrought  a silence,  from  the  stove  there 
shrills 

With  a more  than  mortal  rest, 

The  Cricket’s  song,  in  warmth  increasing  ever, 

Rosy  dews  the  leaves  among, 

And  seems,  to  one  in  drowsiness  half  lost, 

Humble  joys,  and  gentle  song! 

The  Grasshopper’s  among  some  grassy  hills. 

Wretched  poet ! ever  curst 

John  Keats. 

With  a life  of  lives  the  worst, 
Sad  despondence,  restless  fears, 
Endless  jealousies  and  tears. 

In  the  burning  summer  thou 

THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND  CRICKET. 

Warblest  on  the  verdant  bough, 
Meditating  cheerful  play, 

Green  little  vaulter  in  the  sunny  grass, 

Mindless  of  the  piercing  ray ; 

Catching  your  heart  up  at  the  feel  of  June — 

Scorched  in  Cupid’s  fervors,  I 

Sole  voice  that’s  heard  amidst  the  lazy  noon 

Ever  weep  and  ever  die. 

When  even  the  bees  lag  at  the  summoning 

Proud  to  gratify  thy  will, 

brass ; 

Ready  Nature  waits  thee  still ; 

And  you,  warm  little  housekeeper,  who  class 

Balmy  wines  to  thee  she  pours, 

With  those  who  think  the  candles  come  too 

Weeping  through  the  dewy  flowers, 

soon, 

Rich  as  those  by  Hebe  giv’n 

Loving  the  fire,  and  with  your  tricksome 

To  the  thirsty  sons  of  heaven. 

tune 

Yet  alas,  we  both  agree. 

Nick  the  glad  silent  moments  as  they  pass ! 

Miserable  thou  like  me ! 

Each,  alike,  in  youth  rehearses 

Oh  sweet  and  tiny  cousins,  that  belong, 

Gentle  strains  and  tender  verses ; 

One  to  the  fields,  the  other  to  the  hearth, 

Ever  wandering  far  from  home, 

Both  have  your  sunshine ; both,  though  small, 

Mindless  of  the  days  to  come, 

are  strong 

(Such  as  aged  Winter  brings 

At  your  clear  hearts ; and  both  seem  given 

Trembling  on  his  icy  wings,) 

to  earth 

Both  alike  at  last  we  die ; 

To  sing  in  thoughtful  ears  this  natural  song — 

Thou  art  starved,  and  so  am  I ! 

In  doors  and  out,  summer  and  winter,  mirth. 

Walter  II arte. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

ON  THE  GRASSHOPPER  AND 

TO  THE  HUMBLE-BEE 

CRICKET. 

Fine  humble-bee ! fine  humble-bee! 

The  poetry  of  earth  is  never  dead : 

Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 

When  all  the  birds  are  faint  with  the  hot  sun 

Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek. — 

And  hide  in  cooling  trees,  a voice  will  run 

I will  follow  thee  alone, 

From  hedge  to  hedge  about  the  new-mown 

Thou  animated  torrid  zone ! 

mead. 

Zig-zag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 

That  is  the  grasshopper’s — he  takes  the  lead 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 

72 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 
Flower-hells, 

Honeyed  cells, — 

These  the  tents 
Which  he  frequents. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 

Joy  of  thy  dominion ! 

Sailor  of  the  atmosphere ; 

Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 
Yoyager  of  light  and  noon, 

Epicurean  of  June! 

Wait,  I prithee,  till  I come 
Within  earshot  of  thy  hum, — 

All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south  wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall ; 

And,  with  softness  touching  all. 

Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  a color  of  romance  ; 

And  infusing  subtle  heats 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets, — 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Rover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  Midsummer’s  petted  crone, 

Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tune, 

Telling  of  countless  sunny  hours, 

Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found ; 

Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  bird-like  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 

But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple  sap,  and  daffodels, 

Clover,  catchfly,  adder’s-tongue, 

And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among  : 

All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 

All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 

Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 

Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 


Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 
Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  north-western  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast, — 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep  ; 

Woe  and  want  thou  canst  outsleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 

Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 

Kalph  Waldo  Emersoh. 


THE  SPICE  TREE. 

The  spice  tree  lives  in  the  garden  green ; 
Beside  it  the  fountain  flows ; 

And  a fair  bird  sits  the  boughs  between, 

And  sings  his  melodious  woes. 

No  greener  garden  e’er  was  known 
Within  the  bounds  of  an  earthly  king ; 

No  lovelier  skies  have  ever  shone 

Than  those  that  illumine  its  constant  Spring. 

That  coil-bound  stem  has  branches  three  ; 

On  each  a thousand  blossoms  grow ; 

And,  old  as  aught  of  time  can  be, 

The  root  stands  fast  in  the  rocks  below. 

In  the  spicy  shade  ne’er  seems  to  tire 
The  fount  that  builds  a silvery  dome ; 

And  flakes  of  purple  and  ruby  fire 
Gush  out,  and  sparkle  amid  the  foam. 

The  fair  white  bird  of  flaming  crest, 

And  azure  wings  bedropt  with  gold, 

Ne’er  has  he  known  a pause  of  rest, 

But  sings  the  lament  that  he  framed  of  old : 

“ O ! Princess  bright ! how  long  the  night 
Since  thou  art  sunk  in  the  waters  clear ! 

How  sadly  they  flow  from  the  depth  below — 
How  long  must  I sing  and  thou  wilt  not 
hear? 

“ The  waters  play,  and  the  flowers  are  gay, 
And  the  skies  are  sunny  above ; 

I would  that  all  could  fade  and  fall, 

And  I,  too,  cease  to  mourn  my  love. 


THE  PALM. 


78 


Our  tribe  is  many,  our  poets  vie 
With  any  under  the  Arab  sky ; 

Yet  none  can  sing  of  the  Palm  but  I. 

The  marble  minarets  that  begem 

Cairo’s  citadel-diadem 

Are  not  so  light  as  his  slender  stem. 


“ O ! many  a year,  so  wakeful  and  drear, 

I have  sorrowed  and  watched,  beloved,  for 
thee! 

But  there  comes  no  breath  from  the  chambers 
of  death, 

While  the  lifeless  fount  gushes  under  the  tree.” 

The  skies  grow  dark,  and  they  glare  with  red; 
The  tree  shakes  off  its  spicy  bloom ; 

The  waves  of  the  fount  in  a black  pool  spread; 
And  in  thunder  sounds  the  garden’s  doom. 

Down  springs  the  bird  with  long  shrill  cry, 
Into  the  sable  and  angry  flood ; 

And  the  face  of  the  pool,  as  he  falls  from  high, 
Curdles  in  circling  stains  of  blood. 

But  sudden  again  ups  wells  the  fount; 

Higher  and  higher  the  waters  flow — 

In  a glittering  diamond  arch  they  mount, 
And  round  it  the  colors  of  morning  glow. 

Finer  and  finer  the  watery  mound 
Softens  and  melts  to  a thin-spun  veil, 

And  tones  of  music  circle  around, 

And  bear  to  the  stars  the  fountain’s  tale. 

And  swift  the  eddying  rainbow  screen 
Falls  in  dew  on  the  grassy  floor ; 

Under  the  Spice  Tree  the  garden’s  Queen, 
Sits  by  her  lover,  who  wails  no  more. 

John  Steeling. 


THE  ARAB  TO  THE  PALM. 

Next  to  thee,  0 fair  gazelle, 

0 Beddowee  girl,  beloved  so  well 

Next  to  the  fearless  Nedjidee, 

Whose  fleetness  shall  bear  me  again  to  thee ; 

Next  to  ye  both,  I love  the  Palm, 

With  his  leaves  of  beauty,  his  fruit  of  balm ; 

Next  to  ye  both,  I love  the  tree 
Whose  fluttering  shadow  wraps  us  three 
With  love,  and  silence,  and  mystery ! 


He  lifts  his  leaves  in  the  sunbeam’s  glance, 
As  the  Almehs  lift  their  arms  in  dance — 

A slumberous  motion,  a passionate  sign, 

That  works  in  the  cells  of  the  blood  like  wine. 


And  when  the  warm  south  winds  arise, 

He  breathes  his  longing  in  fervid  sighs, 

Quickening  odors,  kisses  of  balm, 

That  drop  in  the  lap  of  his  chosen  palm. 

The  sun  may  flame,  and  the  sands  may  stir, 
But  the  breath  of  his  passion  reaches  her. 

0 Tree  of  Love,  by  that  love  of  thine, 

Teach  me  how  I shall  soften  mine ! 

Give  me  the  secret  of  the  sun, 

Whereby  the  wooed  is  ever  won ! 

If  I were  a king,  O stately  Tree, 

A likeness,  glorious  as  might  be, 

In  the  court  of  my  palace  I ’d  build  for  thee ! 

With  a shaft  of  silver,  burnished  bright, 

And  leaves  of  beryl  and  malachite ; 

With  spikes  of  golden  bloom  a-blaze, 

And  fruits  of  topaz  and  chrysoprase. 

And  there  the  poets,  in  thy  praise, 

Should  night  and  morning  frame  new  lays — 

New  measures  sung  to  tunes  divine ; 

But  none,  O Palm,  should  equal  mine ! 

Bayard  Tayloe. 


Full  of  passion  and  sorrow  is  he, 
Dreaming  where  the  beloved  may  be. 


74 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


THE  TIGER. 

Tiger  ! Tiger ! burning  bright, 

In  the  forests  of  the  night ; 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burned  the  fire  of  thine  eyes  ? 

On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire  ? 

What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire  ? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 

Could  twist  the  sinews  of  thine  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat, 

What  dread  hand  forged  thy  dread  feet  ? 

What  the  hammer  ? what  the  chain  ? 

In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain  ? 

What  the  anvil  ? What  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp  ? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  them  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears, 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see  ? 

Did  He  who  made  the  lamb  make  thee  ? 

Tiger ! Tiger ! burning  bright, 

In  the  forests  of  the  night ; 

What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry  ? 

William  Blake. 


THE  LION’S  RIDE. 

The  lion  is  the  desert’s  king;  through  his 
domain  so  wide 

Right  swiftly  and  right  royally  this  night  he 
means  to  ride. 

By  the  sedgy  brink,  where  the  wild  herds 
drink,  close  couches  the  grim  chief ; 

The  trembling  sycamore  above  whispers  with 
every  leaf. 

At  evening,  on  the  Table  Mount,  when  ye 
can  see  no  more 

The  changeful  play  of  signals  gay ; when  the 
gloom  is  speckled  o’er 


With  kraal  fires ; when  the  Caffre  wends 
home  through  the  lone  karroo ; 

When  the  boshbok  in  the  thicket  sleeps,  and 
by  the  stream  the  gnu ; 

Then  bend  your  gaze  across  the  waste — what 
see  ye  ? The  giraffe, 

Majestic,  stalks  towards  the  lagoon,  the  tur- 
bid lymph  to  quaff ; 

With  outstretched  neck  and  tongue  adust,  he 
kneels  him  down  to  cool 

His  hot  thirst  with  a welcome  draught  from 
the  foul  and  brackish  pool. 

A rustling  sound — a roar — a bound — the  lion 
sits  astride 

Upon  his  giant  courser’s  back.  Did  ever  king 
so  ride  ? 

Had  ever  king  a steed  so  rare,  caparisons  of 
state 

To  match  the  dappled  skin  whereon  that 
rider  sits  elate  ? 

In  the  muscles  of  the  neck  his  teeth  are 
plunged  with  ravenous  greed ; 

His  tawny  mane  is  tossing  round  the  withers 
of  the  steed. 

Up  leaping  with  a hollow  yell  of  anguish  and 
surprise, 

Away,  away,  in  wild  dismay,  the  camel-leop- 
ard flies. 

His  feet  have  wings;  see  how  he  springs 
across  the  moonlit  plain ! 

As  from  their  sockets  they  would  burst,  his 
glaring  eyeballs  strain ; 

In  thick  black  streams  of  purling  blood,  full 
fast  his  life  is  fleeting ; 

The  stillness  of  the  desert  hears  his  heart’s 
tumultuous  beating. 

Like  the  cloud  that,  through  the  wilderness, 
the  path  of  Israel  traced — 

Like  an  airy  phantom,  dull  and  wan,  a spirit 
of  the  waste — 

From  the  sandy  sea  uprising,  as  the  water- 
spout from  ocean, 

A whirling  cloud  of  dust  keeps  pace  with  the 
courser’s  fiery  motion. 


j 


THE  LION  AND  GIRAFFE. 


15 


Croaking  companion  of  their  flight,  the  vul- 
ture whirs  on  high ; 

Below,  the  terror  of  the  fold,  the  panther, 
fierce  and  sly, 

And  hyenas  foul,  round  graves  that  prowl, 
join  in  the  horrid  race ; 

By  the  foot-prints  wet  with  gore  and  sweat, 
their  monarch’s  course  they  trace. 

They  see  him  on  his  living  throne,  and  quake 
with  fear,  the  while 

With  claws  of  steel  he  tears  piecemeal  his 
cushion’s  painted  pile. 

On ! on ! no  pause,  no  rest,  giraffe,  while  life 
and  strength  remain ! 

The  steed  by  such  a rider  backed,  may  madly 
plunge  in  vain. 

Reeling  upon  the  desert’s  verge,  he  falls,  and 
breathes  his  last ; 

The  courser,  stained  with  dust  and  foam,  is 
the  rider’s  fell  repast. 

O’er  Madagascar,  eastward  far,  a faint  flush 
is  descried : — 

Thus  nightly,  o’er  his  broad  domain,  the  king 
of  beasts  doth  ride. 

Ferdinand  Feeiligratu.  (German) 
Anonymous  translation. 


THE  LION  AND  GIRAFFE 

Wotjldst  thou  view  the  lion’s  den  ? 
Search  afar  from  haunts  of  men— 

Where  the  reed-encircled  rill 
Oozes  from  the  rocky  hill, 

By  its  verdure  far  descried 
’Mid  the  desert  brown  and  wide. 

Close  beside  the  sedgy  brim, 

Couchant,  lurks  the  lion  grim ; 

Watching  till  the  close  of  day 
Brings  the  death-devoted  prey. 

Heedless  at  the  ambushed  brink 
The  tall  giraffe  stoops  down  to  drink ; 
Upon  him  straight,  the  savage  springs 
With  cruel  joy.  The  desert  rings 
With  clanging  sound  of  desperate  strife — 
The  prey  is  strong,  and  lie  strives  for  life. 


Plunging  off  with  frantic  bound 
To  shake  the  tyrant  to  the  ground, 

He  shrieks — he  rushes  through  the  waste, 
With  glaring  eye  and  headlong  haste 
In  vain ! — the  spoiler  on  his  prize 
Rides  proudly — tearing  as  he  flies. 

For  life — the  victim’s  utmost  speed 
Is  mustered  in  this  hour  of  need. 

For  life — for  life — his  giant  might 
He  strains,  and  pours  his  soul  in  flight ; 

And  mad  with  terror,  thirst,  and  pain, 
Spurns  with  wild  hoof  the  thundering  plain. 
’Tis  vain ; the  thirsty  sands  are  drinking 
His  streaming  blood — his  strength  is  sinking; 
The  victor’s  fangs  are  in  his  veins — 

His  flanks  are  streaked  with  sanguine  stains- 
His  panting  breast  in  foam  and  gore 
Is  bathed — he  reels — his  race  is  o’er. 

He  falls — and,  with  convulsive  throe, 

Resigns  his  throat  to  the  ravening  foe  * 

— And  lo ! ere  quivering  life  is  fled. 

The  vultures,  wheeling  over  head, 

Swoop  down,  to  watch  in  gaunt  array, 

Till  the  gorged  tyrant  quits  his  prey. 

Thomas  Pringle. 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 
When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o’ercast, 
And,  sick  of  the  present,  I cling  to  the  past : 
When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears. 
From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years ; 
And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 
Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of  the 
dead  : 

Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished  too 
soon ; 

Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood’s 
noon ; 

Attachments  by  fate  or  falsehood  reft ; 
Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 

And  my  native  land- — whose  magical  name 
Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame  ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood ; the  haunts  of 
my  prime ; 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous 
time 


76 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


When  the  feelings  were  young,  and  the  world 
was  new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to 
view ; 

All — all  now  forsaken — forgotten — foregone ! 
And  I — a lone  exile  remembered  of  none — 
My  high  aims  abandoned, — my  good  acts 
undone — 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun, — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger 
may  scan, 

I fly  to  the  Desert  afar  from  man 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 
When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 
With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and 
strife — 

The  proud  man’s  frown,  and  the  base  man’s 
fear — 

The  scorner’s  laugh,  and  the  sufferer’s  tear — 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood, 
and  folly, 

Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy ; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are 
high, 

And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman’s 
sigh— 

Oh!  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and 
pride, 

Afar  in  the  Desert  alone  to  ride ! 

There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing 
steed, 

i And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle’s  speed, 

. With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand — 
The  only  law  of  the  Desert  Land ! 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 
Away — away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild  deer’s  haunt,  by  the  buffalo’s  glen ; 
By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 
Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  harte- 
beest  graze, 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 
By  the  skirts  of  gray  forest  o’erhung  with 
wild  vine ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his 
wood, 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the 
flood, 


And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 
In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his 
fill. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 
O’er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  bleating 
cry 

Of  the  springbok’s  fawn  sounds  plaintively  ; 
And  the  timorous  quagga’s  shrill  whistling 
neigh 

Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 

Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their 
nest, 

Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer’s  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched  karroo. 

Afar  in  the  Desert  I love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 
Away — away — in  the  wilderness  vast, 

Where  the  white  man’s  foot  hath  never 
passed, 

And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan  : 

A region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 
Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and 
fear ; 

Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone, 
With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning 
stone ; 

Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 
And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and  drink, 

Is  the  pilgrim’s  fare  by  the  salt-lake’s  brink  ; 
A region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides ; 
Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 

Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye  ; 

But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread — void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 

And  here,  while  the  night-winds  round  me 
sigh, 

And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight 
sky, 


SUMMER  RAIN. 


11 


As  I sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 

Like  Elijah  at  Horeb’s  cave,  alone, 

“A  still  small  voice”  comes  through  the 
wild 

(Like  a father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, — 
Saying — Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near ! 

Thomas  Pringle. 


THE  BLOOD  HORSE. 

Gamarra  is  a dainty  steed, 

Strong,  black,  and  of  a noble  breed, 

Full  of  fire,  and  full  of  bone, 

With  all  his  line  of  fathers  known ; 

Fine  his  nose,  his  nostrils  thin, 

But  blown  abroad  by  the  pride  within ! 

His  mane  is  like  a river  flowing, 

And  his  eyes  like  embers  glowing 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

And  his  pace  as  swift  as  light. 

Look, — how  ’round  his  straining  throat 
Grace  and  shifting  beauty  float 
Sinewy  strength  is  in  his  reins, 

And  the  red  blood  gallops  through  his  veins, — 
Richer,  redder,  never  ran 
Through  the  boasting  heart  of  man. 

He  can  trace  his  lineage  higher 
Than  the  Bourbon  dare  aspire, — 

Douglas,  Guzman,  or  the  Guelph, 

Or  O’Brien’s  blood  itself ! 

He,  who  hath  no  peer,  was  born. 

Here,  upon  a red  March  morn ; 

But  his  famous  fathers  dead 
Were  Arabs  all,  and  Arab  bred, 

And  the  last  of  that  great  line 
Trod  like  one  of  a race  divine ! 

And  yet, — he  was  but  friend  to  one, 

Who  fed  him  at  the  set  of  sun, 

By  some  lone  fountain  fringed  with  green ; 
With  him,  a roving  Bedouin, 

He  lived,  (none  else  would  he  obey 
Through  all  the  hot  Arabian  day,) — 

And  died  untamed  upon  the  sands 
Where  Balkh  amidst  the  desert  stands ! 


INVOCATION  TO  RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

O gentle,  gentle,  summer  rain, 

Let  not  the  silver  lily  pine, 

The  drooping  lily  pine  in  vain 
To  feel  that  dewy  touch  of  thine — 

To  drink  thy  freshness  once  again, 

O gentle,  gentle,  summer  rain ! 

In  heat  the  landscape  quivering  lies ; 

The  cattle  pant  beneath  the  tree ; 
Through  parching  air  and  purple  skies 
The  earth  looks  up,  in  vain,  for  thee ; 
For  thee — for  thee,  it  looks  in  vain, 

0 gentle,  gentle  summer  rain ' 

Come,  thou,  and  brim  the  meadow  streams, 
And  soften  all  the  hills  with  mist, 

O falling  dew  ! from  burning  dreams 
By  thee  shall  herb  and  flower  be  kissed , 
And  Earth  shall  bless  thee  yet  again, 

O gentle,  gentle,  summer  rain. 

W.  C.  Bennett. 


SUMMER  STORM. 

Untremulous  in  the  river  clear 
Toward  the  sky’s  image,  hangs  the  imaged 
bridge ; 

So  still  the  air,  that  I can  hear 
The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge ; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a gathering  creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  de- 
creases, 

Now  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while 
increases, 

The  huddling  trample  of  a drove  of  sheep 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually 
ceases 

In  dust  on  the  other  side ; life’s  emblem 
deep — 

A confused  noise  between  two  silences, 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 

On  the  wide  marsh  the  purple-blossomed 
grasses 

Soak  up  the  sunshine ; sleeps  the  brim- 
ming tide, 


Barky  Cornwall. 


78 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in 
silence  passes 

Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous 
glide 

Wavers  the  long  green  sedge’s  shade  from 
side  to  side ; 

But  up  the  west,  like  a rock-shivered  surge, 
Climbs  a great  cloud  edged  with  sun- 
whitened  spray ; 

Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o’er  its 
verge, 

And  falling  still  it  seems,  and  yet  it  climbs 
alway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a lid ; 

One  by  one  great  drops  are  falling 
Doubtful  and  slow ; 

Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling, 
And  the  wind  breathes  low ; 

Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 

Here  and  there  the  slenderer  flowers  shiver, 
Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop’s  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I hear  the  thunder  mutter ; 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west ; 

The  upturned  leaves  first  whiten  and  flutter, 
Then  droop  to  a fitful  rest ; 

Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 
Struggles  the  gull,  and  floats  away ; 

Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap— - 
We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day. 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 
And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet ; 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh — 
You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tem- 
pest beat. 

Look ! look ! that  livid  flash ! 

And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder, 

Fell,  splintering  with  a ruinous  crash, 

On  the  earth,  which  crouches  in  silence 
under ; 

And  now  a solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile. 

For  a breath’s  space  I see  the  blue  wood 
again, 

And,  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled 
pile, 


That  seemed  but  now  a league  aloof 
Bursts  rattling  over  the  sun-parched  roof. 

Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dash 
in  g; 

Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crash- 
ing; 

The  blue  lightning  flashes ; 

The  rapid  hail  clashes ; 

The  white  waves  are  tumbling  ; 

And,  in  one  baffled  roar, 

Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 
A rock-bristled  shore, 

The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling, — 

Will  silence  return  never  more  ? 

Hush ! Still  as  death, 

The  tempest  holds  his  breath, 

As  from  a sudden  will ; 

The  rain  stops  short ; but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the  leaves — 
All  is  so  bodingly  still ; 

Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts ; 

The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening ; 

And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 
His  battle-song. 

One  quivering  flash, 

One  wil dering  crash, 

Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 

As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 

Leapt  bodily  below, 

To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overthrow — 
And  then  a total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon ! 

No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there 
Can  shape  a giant  in  the  air ; 

No  more  I see  his  streaming  hair, 

The  writhing  portent  of  his  form  ; — 

The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare, 

And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 

Like  shattered  rigging  from  a fight  at  sea, 
Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


SUMMER  RAIN. 


79 


RAIN  IN  SUMMER. 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain ! 

After  the  dust  and  heat 
In  the  broad  and  fiery  street, 

In  the  narrow  lane, — 

How  beautiful  is  the  rain ! 

How  it  clatters  along  the  roofs, 

Like  the  tramp  of  hoofs  ! 

How  it  gushes  and  struggles  out 
From  the  throat  of  the  overflowing  spout ! 
Across  the  window  pane 
It  pours  and  pours ; 

And  swift  and  wide 
With  a muddy  tide, 

Like  a river,  down  the  gutter  roars 
The  rain,  the  welcome  rain ! 

The  sick  man  from  his  chamber  looks 
At  the  twisted  brooks ; 

He  can  feel  the  cool 
Breath  of  each  little  pool , 

His  fevered  brain 
Grows  calm  again, 

And  he  breathes  a blessing  on  the  rain. 

From  the  neighboring  school 
Come  the  boys, 

With  more  than  their  wonted  noise 
And  commotion ; 

And  down  the  wet  streets 
Sail  their  mimic  fleets, 

Till  the  treacherous  pool 
Engulfs  them  in  its  whirling 
And  turbulent  ocean. 

In  the  country,  on  every  side, 

Where  far  and  wide, 

Like  a leopard’s  tawny  and  spotted  hide, 
Stretches  the  plain, 

To  the  dry  grass  and  the  drier  grain 
How  welcome  is  the  rain ! 

In  the  furrowed  land 

The  toilsome  and  patient  oxen  stand ; 

Lifting  the  yoke-encumbered  head, 

With  their  dilated  nostrils  spread, 

They  silently  inhale 
The  clover-scented  gale, 


And  the  vapors  that  arise 

From  the  well  watered  and  smoking  soil ; 

For  this  rest  in  the  furrow  after  toil 

Their  large  and  lustrous  eyes 

Seem  to  thank  the  Lord, 

More  than  man’s  spoken  wrord. 

Near  at  hand, 

From  under  the  sheltering  trees, 

The  farmer  sees 

His  pastures  and  his  fields  of  grain, 

As  they  bend  their  tops 

To  the  numberless  beating  drops 

Of  the  incessant  rain. 

He  counts  it  as  no  sin 
That  he  sees  therein 
Only  his  own  thrift  and  gain. 

These,  and  far  more  than  these. 

The  Poet  sees ! 

He  can  behold 
Aquarius  old 

Walking  the  fenceless  fields  of  air  •, 

And  from  each  ample  fold 
Of  the  clouds  about  him  rolled 
Scattering  every  where 
The  showery  rain, 

As  the  farmer  scatters  his  grain. 

He  can  behold 
Things  manifold 

That  have  not  yet  been  wholly  told, 

Have  not  been  wholly  sung  nor  said. 

For  his  thought,  that  never  stops, 

Follows  the  water-drops 
Down  to  the  graves  of  the  dead, 

Down  through  chasms  and  gulfs  profound, 
To  the  dreary  fountain-head 
Of  lakes  and  rivers  under  ground  ; 

And  sees  them,  when  the  rain  is  done, 

On  the  bridge  of  colors  seven 
Climbing  up  once  more  to  heaven, 
Opposite  the  setting  sun. 

Thus  the  seer, 

With  vision  clear, 

Sees  forms  appear  and  disappear, 

In  the  perpetual  round  of  strange, 
Mysterious  change 

From  birth  to  death,  from  death  to  birth, 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  heaven  to 
earth  • 


80 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Till  glimpses  more  sublime, 

Of  things  unseen  before, 

Unto  his  wondering  eyes  reveal 

The  universe,  as  an  immeasurable  wheel 

Turning  for  evermore 

In  the  rapid  and  rushing  river  of  Time. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  CLOUD. 

I being  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 
From  the  seas  and  the  streams ; 

I bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 
In  their  noon-day  dreams. 

From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that 
waken 

The  sweet  birds  every  one, 

When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother’s  breast, 
As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 

I wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail. 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under ; 
And  then  again  I dissolve  it  in  rain ; 

And  laugh  as  I pass  in  thunder. 

I sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 

And  all  the  night,  ’tis  my  pillow  white, 
While  I sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers 
Lightning,  my  pilot,  sits ; 

In  a cavern  under,  is  fettered  the  thunder ; 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits. 

Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion. 
This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 

Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 
In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 

Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 
Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or 
stream, 

The  spirit  he  loves,  remains ; 

And  I all  the  while  bask  in  heaven’s  blue 
smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 
And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead. 


As,  on  the  jag  of  a mountain  crag 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle,  alit,  one  moment  may  sit 
In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings  ; 

And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit 
sea  beneath, 

Its  ardors  of  rest  and  of  love, 

And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 
From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 

With  wings  folded  I rest  on  mine  airy  nest, 
As  still  as  a brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 

Glides  glimmering  o’er  my  fleece-like  floor 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 

And,  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 
Which  only  the  angels  hear, 

May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent’s  thin 
roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer ; 
And  I laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a swarm  of  golden  bees, 

When  I widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 
Till  the  calm  river,  lakes,  and  seas, 

Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on 
high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I bind  the  sun’s  throne  with  a burning  zone, 
And  the  moon’s  with  a girdle  of  pearl ; 
The  volcanoes  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and 
swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a bridge-like  shape, 
Over  a torrent  sea, 

Sunbeam  proof,  I hang  like  a roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 

The  triumphal  arch,  through  which  I march, 
With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 

When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to 
my  chair, 

Is  the  million-colored  bow ; 

The  sphere-fire  above,  its  soft  colors  wove, 
While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  be- 
low. 

I am  the  daughter  of  the  earth  and  water, 
And  the  nurseling  of  the  sky ; 

I pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and 
shores ; 

I change,  but  I cannot  die. 


SUMMER  WINDS. 


81 


For  after  the  rain,  when,  with  never  a stain, 
The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 

And  the  winds  and  sunbeams,  with  their 
convex  gleams, 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air — 

I silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 

Like  a child  from  the  womb,  like  a ghost 
from  the  tomb, 

I rise  and  upbuild  it  again. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


DRINKING. 

The  thirsty  earth  soaks  up  the  rain, 

And  drinks,  and  gapes  for  drink  again ; 

The  plants  suck  in  the  earth,  and  are, 

With  constant  drinking,  fresh  and  fair ; 

The  sea  itself,  (which  one  would  think 

Should  have  but  little  need  of  drink,) 

Drinks  twice  ten  thousand  rivers  up, 

So  filled  that  they  o’erflow  the  cup. 

The  busy  sun  (and  one  would  guess 

By ’s  drunken  fiery  face  no  less,) 

Drinks  up  the  sea,  and,  when  he  ’as  done, 

The  moon  and  stars  drink  up  the  sun : 

They  drink  and  dance  by  their  own  light ; 

They  drink  and  revel  all  the  night. 

Nothing  in  nature’s  sober  found, 

But  an  eternal  “health”  goes  round. 

Fill  up  the  bowl  then,  fill  it  high — 

Fill  all  the  glasses  there ; for  why 

Should  every  creature  drink  but  I ; 

Why,  man  of  morals,  tell  me  why  ? 

Anacreon.  (Greek) 
Translation  of  Abraham  Cowley. 


THE  MIDGES  DANCE  ABOON  THE 
BURN. 

The  midges  dance  aboon  the  burn ; 

The  dews  begin  to  fa’ ; 

The  pairtricks  down  the  rushy  holm 
Set  up  their  e’ening  ca’. 

Now  loud  and  clear  the  blackbird’s  sang 
Rings  through  the  briery  shaw, 

While  flitting  gay,  the  swallows  play 
Around  the  castle  wa’. 

6 


Beneath  the  golden  gloamin’  sky 
The  mavis  mends  her  lay  ; 

The  red-breast  pours  his  sweetest  strains, 
To  charm  the  ling’ring  day ; 

While  weary  yeldrins  feeem  to  wail 
Their  little  nestlings  torn, 

The  merry  wren,  frae  den  to  den, 

Gaes  jinking  through  the  thorn. 

The  roses  fauld  their  silken  leaves, 

The  foxglove  shuts  its  bell ; 

The  honey-suckle  and  the  birk 
Spread  fragrance  through  the  del . 

Let  others  crowd  the  giddy  court 
Of  mirth  and  revelry, 

The  simple  joys  that  Nature  yields 
Are  dearer  far  to  me. 

Kobert  Tannahill. 


SONG  OF  THE  SUMMER  WINDS. 

Up  the  dale  and  down  the  bourne, 

O’er  the  meadow  swift  we  fly ; 

Now  we  sing,  and  now  we  mourn, 

Now  we  whistle,  now  we  sigh. 

By  the  grassy-fringed  river, 

Through  the  murmuring  reeds  we  sweep ; 

Mid  the  lily-leaves  we  quiver, 

To  their  very  hearts  we  creep. 

Now  the  maiden  rose  is  blushing 
At  the  frolic  things  we  say, 

While  aside  her  cheek  we  ’re  rushing, 

Like  some  truant  bees  at  play. 

Through  the  blooming  groves  we  rustle, 
Kissing  every  bud  we  pass, — 

As  we  did  it  in  the  bustle, 

Scarcely  knowing  how  it  was. 

Down  the  glen,  across  the  mountain, 

O’er  the  yellow  heath  we  roam, 

Whirling  round  about  the  fountain, 

Till  its  little  breakers  foam. 

Bending  down  the  weeping  willows, 

While  our  vesper  hymn  we  sigh; 

Then  unto  our  rosy  pillows 
On  our  weary  wings  we  hie. 


82  POEMS  OF 

NATURE. 

There  of  idlenesses  dreaming, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 

Scarce  from  waking  we  refrain, 

Pestilence-stricken  multitudes ! 0 thou, 

Moments  long  as  ages  deeming 

Who  chariotest  to  their  dark,  wintry  bed 

Till  we  ’re  at  our  play  again. 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and 

Geobge  Dabley. 

low, 

Each  like  a corpse  within  its  grave,  until 

Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 

THE  WANDERING  WIND. 

Her  clarion  o’er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds,  like  flocks,  to  feed  in 

The  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind 

air) 

Of  the  golden  summer  eves — 

With  living  hues  and  odors,  plain  and  hill : 

Whence  is  the  thrilling  magic 
Of  its  tones  amongst  the  leaves  ? 

Oh ! is  it  from  the  waters, 

Wild  spirit,  which  are  moving  everywhere ; 

Or,  from  the  long,  tall  grass  ? 

Destroyer  and  preserver ; hear,  oh  hear ! 

Or  is  it  from  the  hollow  rocks 

Through  which  its  breathings  pass  ? 

ii. 

Thou,  on  whose  stream,  ’mid  the  steep  sky’s 

Or  is  it  from  the  voices 

commotion, 

Of  all  in  one  combined, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth’s  decaying  leaves  are 

That  it  wins  the  tone  of  mastery  ? 

shed, 

The  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind ! 

Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and 

No,  no!  the  strange,  sweet  accents 

ocean. 

That  with  it  come  and  go, 

They  are  not  from  the  osiers, 

Nor  the  fir-trees  whispering  low. 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning:  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 

Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

They  are  not  of  the  waters, 
Nor  of  the  caverned  hill ; 

’Tis  the  human  love  within  us 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim 

That  gives  them  power  to  thrill : 

verge 

They  touch  the  links  of  memory 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith’s  height, 

Around  our  spirits  twined, 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.  Thou 

And  we  start,  and  weep,  and  tremble, 

dirge 

To  the  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind! 

Felicia  Hemans. 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a vast  sepulchre 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND. 

Of  vapors ; from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst : Oh 

i. 

hear ! 

0 wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  autumn’s 

hi. 

being, 

Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer 

dead 

dreams 

Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter 

The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 

fleeing — 

Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

THE  OCEAN.  83 

Beside  a pumice  isle  in  Baise’s  bay, 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 

And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers, 

Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a new  birth ; 

Quivering  within  the  waves’  intenser  day, 

And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 

So  sweet  the  sense  faints  picturing  them ! 

Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind ! 

Thou 

Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic’s  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while,  far  he- 

The  trumpet  of  a prophecy ! 0 wind, 

If  winter  comes,  can  spring  be  far  behind  ? 

low, 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

The  sea-blooms,  and  the  oozy  woods  which 
wear 

The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves:  Oh 

THE  OCEAN. 
Likeness  of  heaven ! 

hear! 

Agent  of  power ! 

IV. 

Man  is  thy  victim, 
Shipwrecks  thy  dower ! 

If  I were  a dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear ; — 

Spices  and  jewels 

If  I were  a swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee ; — 

From  valley  and  sea, 

A wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power  and  share 

Armies  and  banners, 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength — only  less  free 

Are  buried  in  thee ! 

Than  thou,  0 uncontrollable ! If  even 

What  are  the  riches 
Of  Mexico’s  mines 

I were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven 

To  the  wealth  that  far  down 
In  the  deep  water  shines  ? 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

The  proud  navies  that  cover 

Scarce  seemed  a vision,  I would  ne’er  have 

The  conquering  West — 

striven 

Thou  fling  ’st  them  to  death 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh ! lift  me  as  a wave,  a leaf,  a cloud ! 

With  one  heave  of  thy  breast. 
From  the  high  hills  that  vizor 

I fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life ! I bleed ! 

Thy  wreck-making  shore, — 

A heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and 

When  the  bride  of  the  mariner 
Shrieks  at  thy  roar, 

bowed 

When,  like  lambs  in  the  tempest 

One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and 

Or  mews  in  the  blast, 

proud. 

0 ’er  thy  ridge-broken  billows 

V. 

The  canvas  is  cast, — 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is. 

How  humbling  to  one 

What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own ! 

With  a heart  and  a soul, 

The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 

To  look  on  thy  greatness, 

Will  take  from  both  a deep  autumnal  tone — 

And  list  to  its  roll ; 

To  think  how  that  heart 

Sweet  though  in  sadness.  Be  thou,  spirit 

In  cold  ashes  shall  be, 

fierce, 

While  the  voice  of  eternity 

My  spirit ! Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one ! 

Rises  from  thee ! 

84 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Yes ! where  are  the  cities 
Of  Thebes  and  of  Tyre 
Swept  from  the  nations 
Like  sparks  from  the  fire ; 

The  glory  of  Athens, 

The  splendor  of  Rome, 

Dissolved — and  for  ever — 

Like  dew  in  thy  foam. 

But  thou  art  almighty — 

Eternal — sublime — 

Unweakened — unwasted — 
Twin-brother  of  Time ! 

Fleets,  tempests,  nor  nations 
Thy  glory  can  how ; 

As  the  stars  first  beheld  thee, 

Still  chainless  art  thou ! 

But  hold ! when  thy  surges 
No  longer  shall  roll, 

And  that  firmament’s  length 
Is  drawn  hack  like  a scroll ; 

Then — then  shall  the  spirit 
That  sighs  by  thee  now, 

Be  more  mighty,  more  lasting, 
More  chainless  than  thou ! 

John  Augustus  Shea. 


THE  SEA. 

The  sea ! the  sea ! the  open  sea ! 

The  blue,  the  fresh,  the  ever  free ! 

Without  a mark,  without  a bound, 

It  runneth  the  earth’s  wide  regions  round ; 

It  plays  with  the  clouds ; it  mocks  the  skies ; 
Or  like  a cradled  creature  lies. 

I ’m  on  the  sea ! I’mon  the  sea ! 

I am  where  I would  ever  be ; 

With  the  blue  above,  and  the  blue  below, 
And  silence  wheresoe’er  I go ; 

If  a storm  should  come  and  awake  the  deep, 
What  matter?  I shall  ride  and  sleep. 

I love,  O,  how  I love  to  ride 
On  the  fierce,  foaming,  bursting  tide, 


When  every  mad  wave  drowns  the  moon, 

Or  whistles  aloft  his  tempest  tune, 

And  tells  how  goeth  the  world  below, 

And  why  the  sou’west  blasts  do  blow. 

I never  was  on  the  dull,  tame  shore, 

But  I loved  the  great  sea  more  and  more, 
And  backward  flew  to  her  billowy  breast, 
Like  a bird  that  seeketh  its  mother’s  nest ; 
And  a mother  she  was,  and  is,  to  me ; 

For  I was  born  on  the  open  sea ! 

The  waves  were  white,  and  red  the  morn, 

In  the  noisy  hour  when  I was  born ; 

And  the  whale  it  whistled,  the  porpoise  rolled, 
And  the  dolphins  bared  their  backs  of  gold ; 
And  never  was  heard  such  an  outcry  wild 
As  welcomed  to  life  the  ocean-child ! 

I’ve  lived  since  then,  in  calm  and  strife, 

Full  fifty  summers,  a sailor’s  life, 

With  wealth  to  spend  and  a power  to  range, 
But  never  have  sought  nor  sighed  for  change ; 
And  Death,  whenever  he  comes  to  me, 

Shall  come  on  the  wild,  unbounded  sea ! 

Babby  Cornwall. 


THE  STORMY  PETREL. 

A thousand  miles  from  land  are  we, 

Tossing  about  on  the  roaring  sea — 

From  billow  to  bounding  billow  cast, 

Like  fleecy  snow  on  the  stormy  blast. 

The  sails  are  scattered  abroad  like  weeds ; 
The  strong  masts  shake  like  quivering  reeds ; 
The  mighty  cables  and  iron  chains ; 

The  hull,  which  all  earthly  strength  disdains, — 
They  strain  and  they  crack ; and  hearts  like 
stone 

Their  natural,  hard,  proud  strength  disown. 

Up  and  down ! — up  and  down ! 

From  the  base  of  the  wave  to  the  billow’s 
crown, 

And  amidst  the  flashing  and  feathery  foam, 
The  stormy  petrel  finds  a home 


THE  OCEAN. 


A home,  if  such  a place  may  be 

For  her  who  lives  on  the  wide,  wide  sea, 

On  the  craggy  ice,  in  the  frozen  air, 

And  only  seeketh  her  rocky  lair 
To  warm  her  young,  and  to  teach  them  to 
spring 

At  once  o’er  the  waves  on  their  stormy 
wing! 

O’er  the  deep ! — o’er  the  deep ! 

Where  the  whale,  and  the  shark,  and  the 
sword-fish  sleep — 

Outflying  the  blast  and  the  driving  rain, 

The  petrel  telleth  her  tale — in  vain ; 

For  the  mariner  curseth  the  warning  bird 
Which  bringeth  him  news  of  the  storm  un- 
heard ! 

Ah ! thus  does  the  prophet  of  good  or  ill 
Meet  hate  from  the  creatures  he  serveth  still; 
Yet  he  ne’er  falters — so,  petrel,  spring 
Once  more  o’er  the  waves  on  thy  stormy 
wing! 

Babby  Coenwall. 


A WET  SHEET  AND  A FLOWING  SEA. 

A wet  sheet  and  a flowing  sea — 

A wind  that  follows  fast, 

And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast— 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 
While,  like  the  eagle  free, 

Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 
Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O for  a soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I heard  a fair  one  cry ; 

But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high — 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  boys, 
The  good  ship  tight  and  free ; 

The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There ’s  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 
And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 

And  hark  the  music,  mariners ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud — 


85 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys. 

The  lightning  flashing  free ; 

While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


TWILIGHT. 

The  twilight  is  sad  and  cloudy ; 

The  wind  blows  wild  and  free ; 

And  like  the  wings  of  sea-birds 
Flash  the  white  caps  of  the  sea. 

But  in  the  fisherman’s  cottage 
There  shines  a ruddier  light, 

And  a little  face  at  the  window 
Peers  out  into  the  night ; 

Close,  close  it  is  pressed  to  the  window, 
As  if  those  childish  eyes 

Were  looking  into  the  darkness. 

To  see  some  form  arise. 

And  a woman’s  waving  shadow 
Is  passing  to  and  fro, 

Now  rising  to  the  ceiling, 

Now  bowing  and  bending  low. 

What  tale  do  the  roaring  ocean 
And  the  night- wind,  bleak  and  wild, 

As  they  beat  at  the  crazy  casement, 

Tell  to  that  little  child  ? 

And  why  do  the  roaring  ocean, 

And  the  night-wind,  wild  and  bleak, 

As  they  beat  at  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
Drive  the  color  from  her  cheek  ? 

Henby  Wadswoeth  Longfellow. 


STORM  SONG. 

TnE  clouds  are  scudding  across  the  moon  ; 

A misty  light  is  on  the  sea ; 

The  wind  in  the  shrouds  has  a wintry  tune, 
And  the  foam  is  flying  free. 


86 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Brothers,  a night  of  terror  and  gloom 
Speaks  in  the  cloud  and  gathering  roar ; 
Thank  God,  He  has  given  us  broad  sea-room, 
A thousand  miles  from  shore. 

Down  with  the  hatches  on  those  who  sleep ! 

The  wild  and  whistling  deck  have  we ; 
Good  watch,  my  brothers,  to-night  we’ll  keep, 
While  the  tempest  is  on  the  sea ! 

Though  the  rigging  shriek  in  his  terrible  grip, 
And  the  naked  spars  be  snapped  away, 
Lashed  to  the  helm,  we’ll  drive  our  ship 
In  the  teeth  of  the  whelming  spray ! 

Hark ! how  the  surges  o’erleap  the  deck ! 

Hark ! how  the  pitiless  tempest  raves ! 

Ah,  daylight  will  look  upon  many  a wreck 
Drifting  over  the  desert  waves. 

Yet,  courage,  brothers ! we  trust  the  wave, 
With  God  above  us,  our  guiding  chart. 

So,  whether  to  harbor  or  ocean-grave, 

Be  it  still  with  a cheery  heart ! 

Bayard  Taylor. 


MOAN,  MOAN,  YE  DYING  GALES. 

Moan,  moan,  ye  dying  gales ! 

The  saddest  of  your  tales 
Is  not  so  sad  as  life ; 

Nor  have  you  e’er  began 
A theme  so  wild  as  man, 

Or  with  such  sorrow  rife. 

Fall,  fall,  thou  withered  leaf! 
Autumn  sears  not  like  grief, 

Nor  kills  such  lovely  flowers ; 
More  terrible  the  storm, 

More  mournful  the  deform, 

When  dark  misfortune  lowers. 

Hush ! hush ! thou  trembling  lyre, 
Silence,  ye  vocal  choir, 

And  thou,  mellifluous  lute, 


For  man  soon  breathes  his  last, 

And  all  his  hope  is  past, 

And  all  his  music  mute. 

Then,  when  the  gale  is  sighing, 

And  when  the  leaves  are  dying, 

And  when  the  song  is  o’er, 

Oh,  let  us  think  of  those 
Whose  lives  are  lost  in  woes, 

Whose  cup  of  grief  runs  o’er. 

Henry  Neele. 


SEAWEED. 

When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 

Storm- wind  of  the  equinox, 

Landward  in  his  wrath  he  scourges 
The  toiling  surges, 

Laden  with  seaweed  from  the  rocks ; 

From  Bermuda’s  reefs ; from  edges 
Of  sunken  ledges 
In  some  far-off,  bright  Azore ; 

From  Bahama,  and  the  dashing, 
Silver-flashing 
Surges  of  San  Salvador ; 

From  the  tumbling  surf  that  buries 
The  Orkneyan  skerries, 

Answering  the  hoarse  Hebrides ; 

And  from  wrecks  of  ships,  and  drifting 
Spars,  uplifting 
On  the  desolate,  rainy  seas ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 
Currents  of  the  restless  main ; 

Till  in  sheltered  coves,  and  reaches 
Of  sandy  beaches, 

All  have  found  repose  again. 

So  when  storms  of  wild  emotion 
Strike  the  ocean 
Of  the  poet’s  soul,  ere  long, 


THE  SEA— IN  CALM. 


87 


From  each  cave  and  rocky  fastness 
In  its  vastness, 

Floats  some  fragment  of  a song : 

From  the  far-off  isles  enchanted 
Heaven  has  planted 

With  the  golden  fruit  of  truth ; 

From  the  flashing  surf,  whose  vision 
Gleams  elysian 

In  the  tropic  clime  of  Youth ; 

From  the  strong  will,  and  the  endeavor 
That  for  ever 

Wrestles  with  the  tides  of  fate ; 

From  the  wreck  of  hopes  far-scattered, 
Tempest-shattered, 

Floating  waste  and  desolate ; — 

Ever  drifting,  drifting,  drifting 
On  the  shifting 

Currents  of  the  restless  heart ; 

Till  at  length  in  books  recorded, 

They,  like  hoarded 

Household  words,  no  more  depart. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


GULF-WEED. 

A weary  weed,  tossed  to  and  fro, 

Drearily  drenched  in  the  ocean  brine, 

Soaring  high  and  sinking  low, 

Lashed  along  without  will  of  mine ; 

Sport  of  the  spoom  of  the  surging  sea ; 
Flung  on  the  foam,  afar  and  anear, 

Mark  my  manifold  mystery, — 

Growth  and  grace  in  their  place  appear. 

I bear  round  berries,  gray  and  red, 
Rootless  and  rover  though  I be ; 

My  spangled  leaves,  when  nicely  spread, 
Arboresce  as  a trunkless  tree  ; 

Corals  curious  coat  me  o’er, 

White  and  hard  in  apt  array ; 

’Mid  the  wild  waves’  rude  uproar, 
Gracefully  grow  I,  night  and  day. 


Hearts  there  are  on  the  sounding  shore, 
Something  whispers  soft  to  me, 

Restless  and  roaming  for  evermore, 

Like  this  weary  weed  of  the  sea ; 

Bear  they  yet  on  each  beating  breast 
The  eternal  type  of  the  wondrous  whole : 
Growth  unfolding  amidst  unrest, 

Grace  informing  with  silent  soul. 

Cornelius  George  Fenner. 


THE  SEA— IN  CALM. 

Look  what  immortal  floods  the  sunset  pours 
Upon  us — Mark ! how  still  (as  though  in 
dreams 

Bound)  the  once  wild  and  terrible  ocean 
seems ! 

How  silent  are  the  winds ! no  billow  roars ; 
But  all  is  tranquil  as  Elysian  shores. 

The  silver  margin  which  aye  runneth  round 
The  moon-enchanted  sea,  hath  here  no  sound; 
Even  Echo  speaks  not  on  these  radiant  moors ! 
What ! is  the  giant  of  the  ocean  dead, 

Whose  strength  was  all  unmatched  beneath 
the  sun  ? 

No : he  reposes ! Now  his  toils  are  done ; 
More  quiet  than  the  babbling  brooks  is  he. 
So  mightiest  powers  by  deepest  calms  are  fed, 
And  sleep,  how  oft,  in  things  that  gentlest  be! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE  LITTLE  BEACH-BIRD. 

i. 

Thou  little  bird,  thou  dweller  by  the  sea, 
Why  takest  thou  its  melancholy  voice, 
And  with  that  boding  cry 
O ’er  the  waves  dost  thou  fly  ? 

0 ! rather,  bird,  with  me 
Through  the  fair  land  rejoice ! 

ii. 

Thy  flitting  form  comes  ghostly  dim  and  pale, 
As  driven  by  a beating  storm  at  sea ; 

Thy  cry  is  weak  and  scared, 

As  if  thy  mates  had  shared 
The  doom  of  us.  Thy  wail — 

What  does  it  bring  to  me  ? 


88 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


in. 

Thou  call’st  along  the  sand,  and  haunt  ’st  the 
surge, 

Restless  and  sad ; as  if,  in  strange  accord 
With  the  motion  and  the  roar 
Of  waves  that  drive  to  shore, 

One  spirit  did  ye  urge — 

The  Mystery — the  Word. 

rv. 

Of  thousands  thou  both  sepulchre  and  pall, 
Old  Ocean,  art ! A requiem  o ’er  the  dead 
From  out  thy  gloomy  cells 
A tale  of  mourning  tells — 

Tells  of  man’s  woe  and  fall, 

His  sinless  glory  fled. 

v. 

Then  turn  thee,  little  bird,  and  take  thy  flight 
Where  the  complaining  sea  shall  sadness 
bring 

Thy  spirit  never  more. 

Come,  quit  with  me  the  shore 
For  gladness,  and  the  light 
Where  birds  of  summer  sing. 

Richabd  Heney  Dana. 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a coral  grove, 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove ; 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of 
blue 

That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 

The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows 
flow; 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that 
glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air. 


There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 
There,  with  a light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep 
sea; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea. 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 

And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 
Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own. 

And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 
When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky 
skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore ; 
Then,  far  below,  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove 
Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 
Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 

James  Gates  Peeciyal. 


HAMPTON  BEACH. 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 
Where,  miles  away, 

Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 

A luminous  belt,  a misty  light, 

Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  of 
sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  sea ! 

Against  its  ground 

Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 

Still  as  a picture,  clear  and  free, 

With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast  for 
miles  around. 

On — on — we  tread  with  loose-flung  rein 
Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossoming 
grain, 

Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering- 
locust  spray. 


SENECA  LAKE. 


89 


Ha ! like  a kind  hand  on  my  brow 
Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 

Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 

While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a new  life — the  healing  of  the 
seas ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 
His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  hound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds  with 
cool  spray  wet. 

Good-bye  to  pain  and  care ! I take 
Mine  ease  to-day ; 

Here,  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I shake 
All  burdens  from  the  heart,  all  weary 
thoughts  away. 

I draw  a freer  breath ; I seem 
Like  all  I see — 

Waves  in  the  sun — the  white- winged  gleam 
Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam — 

And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south 
wind  free. 

So  when  Time’s  veil  shall  fall  asunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 

Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 

But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the  vast- 
ness grow. 

And  all  we  shrink  from  now  may  seem 
No  new  revealing — 

Familiar  as  our  childhood’s  stream, 

Or  pleasant  memory  of  a dream, 

The  loved  and  cherished  Past  upon  the  new 
life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild,  the  untried  light 
May  have  its  dawning ; 

And,  as  in  Summer’s  northern  light 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 

The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend  with  the  soul’s 
new  morning. 


I sit  alone ; in  foam  and  spray 
Wave  after  wave 

Breaks  on  the  rocks  which,  stern  and  gray, 
Beneath  like  fallen  Titans  lay, 

Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong  through  mossy 
cleft  and  cave. 

What  heed  I of  the  dusty  land 
And  noisy  town  ? 

I see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To  where  the  blue  of  heaven  on  bluer  waves 
shuts  down ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind  ; 
And  passive  on  the  flood  reclined, 

I wander  with  the  waves,  and  with  them  rise 
and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer ! — wave  and  shore 
In  shadow  lie ; 

The  night- wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where  my  native  hill-tops  o’er 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  fire  the  glowing  sunset 
sky! 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell ! 
I bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 

But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief,  thoughtful,  hour  of  musing  by 
the  sea. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


TO  SENECA  LAKE. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream, 

The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 

And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam, 

And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 


90 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


The  'waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north- wind,  heave  their  foam 
And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 

As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 

And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 
Float  round  the  distant  mountain’s  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 

A sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 

And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 

Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake, 

0 ! I could  ever  sweep  the  oar, — 

When  early  birds  at  morning  wake, 

And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o’er. 

James  Gates  Pebcival. 


YARROW  UNVISITED. 

From  Stirling  castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled; 

Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay, 

And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled ; 

And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  “ winsome  marrow 
“Whate’er  betide,  we’ll  turn  aside, 

And  see  the  braes  of  Yarrow.” 

“Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 

Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

Go  back  to  Yarrow ; ’tis  their  own — 

Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling ! 

On  Yarrow’s  banks  let  herons  feed, 

Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow ! 

But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

“There’s  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

Both  lying  right  before  us ; 

And  Dry  borough,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 
The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus ; 


* See  the  various  poems,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  upon 
the  banks  of  the  Yarrow;  in  particular,  the  exquisite 
ballad  of  Hamilton,  on  page  450  of  this  volume,  begin- 
ning: 

“ Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  Bride, 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow ! ” 


There ’s  pleasant  Teviot-dale,  a land 
Hade  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow : 

Why  throw  away  a needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

“What’s  Yarrow  but  a river  bare, 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under  ? 

There  are  a thousand  such  elsewhere, 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder.” 

Strange  words  they  seemed,  of  slight  and 
scorn ; 

My  true-love  sighed  for  sorrow, 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow ! 

“ O,  green,”  said  I,  “ are  Yarrow’s  holms, 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing ! 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 

But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

O’er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 

We’ll  wander  Scotland  thorough; 

But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

“Let  beeves  and  homebred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow ; 

The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary’s  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow ! 

We  will  not  see  them ; will  not  go 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow ; 

Enough,  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There’s  such  a place  as  Yarrow. 

“Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown! 

It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 

We  have  a vision  of  our  own ; 

Ah ! why  should  we  undo  it  ? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 
We’ll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow ! 

For  when  we’re  there,  although  ’tis  fair, 
’Twill  be  another  Yarrow! 

“ If  care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 
And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 

Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 

And  yet  be  melancholy, — 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

’T  will  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 

That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show — 

The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow!  ” 

William  Wordsworth. 


YARROW. 


91 


YARROW  VISITED. 

Axd  is  this — Yarrow? — This  the  stream 
Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 

So  faithfully,  a waking  dream  ? 

An  image  that  hath  perished ! 

O that  some  minstrel’s  harp  were  near, 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness, 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness ! 

Yet  why? — a silvery  current  flows 
With  uncontrolled  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 
Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary’s  lake 
Is  visibly  delighted ; 

For  not  a feature  of  those  hills 
Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A blue  sky  bends  o’er  Yarrow  vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused — 

A tender,  hazy  brightness ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise ! that  excludes 
All  profitless  dejection ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 
A pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 
Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 
On  which  the  herd  is  feeding ; 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  lovers — 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers ; 

And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  * 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation. 


Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread — 

A softness  still  and  holy, 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 
Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 
Of  cultivated  nature ; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves, 
Behold  a ruin  hoary ! 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark’s  towers, 
Renowned  in  border  story. 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood’s  opening  bloom, 
For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in ; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in ! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a bower  of  bliss, 

A covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts,  that  nestle  there, — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day, 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  true-love’s  forehead  plant 
A crest  of  blooming  heather ! 

And  what  if  I inwreathed  my  own ! 

’T  were  no  offence  to  reason ; 

The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I see, — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I won  thee ; 

A ray  of  fancy  still  survives, — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 
A course  of  lively  pleasure ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe, 
Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapors  linger  round  the  heights  ; 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish ; 

One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine  : 

Sad  thought,  which  I would  banish 
But  that  I know,  where’er  I go, 

Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow, 

Will  dwell  with  me,  to  heighten  joy, 

And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

William  Wordsworth. 


92 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


YARROW  REVISITED. 

The  following  Stanzas  are  a memorial  of  a day  passed 
with  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  other  friends,  visiting  the  banks 
of  the  Yarrow  under  his  guidance — immediately  before 
his  departure  from  Abbotsford,  for  Naples. 

The  gallant  youth,  who  may  have  gained, 

Or  seeks,  a “ winsome  marrow,” 

Was  hut  an  infant  in  the  lap 
When  first  I looked  on  Yarrow ; 

Once  more,  by  Newark’s  Castle-gate — 

Long  left  without  a warder, 

I stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  thee, 

Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border ! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day, 
Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 
Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling; 

But  breezes  played,  and  sunshine  gleamed, 
The  forest  to  embolden ; 

Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 
Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts,  the  stream  flowed  on 
In  foamy  agitation ; 

And  slept  in  many  a crystal  pool 
For  quiet  contemplation. 

No  public  and  no  private  care 
The  freeborn  mind  enthralling, 

We  made  a day  of  happy  hours, 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  appeared,  the  morn  of  youth, 
With  freaks  of  graceful  folly, — 

Life’s  temperate  noon,  her  sober  eve, 

Her  night  not  melancholy ; 

Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 
In  harmony  united, 

Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far, 

By  cordial  love  invited. 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  woods 
And  down  the  meadow  ranging, 

Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face, 

Though  we  were  changed  and  changing — 


If,  then,  some  natural  shadows  spread 
Our  inward  prospect  over, 

The  soul’s  deep  valley  was  not  slow 
Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment ! 

The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  sons 
For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment; 

Albeit  sickness,  lingering  yet, 

Has  o’er  their  pillow  brooded ; 

And  care  waylays  their  steps, — a sprite  t 
Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O Scott!  compelled  to  change 
Green  Eildon  Hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio’s  vine-clad  slopes; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
For  mild  Sorrento’s  breezy  waves; 

May  classic  fancy,  linking 
With  native  fancy  her  fresh  aid, 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking ! 

O,  while  they  minister  to  thee, 

Each  vying  with  the  other, 

May  health  return  to  mellow  age, 

With  strength,  her  venturous  brother ; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 
Renowned  in  song  and  story, 

With  unimagined  beauty  shine, 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory! 

For  thou,  upon  a hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 

Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow ; 

And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen, 
Wherever  they  invite  thee, 

At  parent  Nature’s  grateful  call 
With  gladness  must  requite  thee. 

A gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine — ■ 
Such  looks  of  love  and  honor 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 
When  first  I gazed  upon  her — 

Beheld  what  I had  feared  to  see, 
Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days 
The  holy  and  the  tender. 


SEPTEMBER. 


93 


And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 
That  mortals  do  or  suffer, 

Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen, 

Memorial  tribute  offer  ? 

Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature’s  self — 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us, 

Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 
That  hourly  speaks  within  us  ? 

Nor  deem  that  localized  romance 
Plays  false  with  our  affections ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears, — made  sport 
For  fanciful  dejections. 

Ah,  no ! the  visions  of  the  past 
Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is, — our  changeful  life, 

"With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 

Bear  witness,  ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 
In  Yarrow’s  groves  were  centred; 

Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 
Of  mouldering  Newark  entered; 

And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 
Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  “last  Minstrel,”  (not  the  last!) 

Ere  he  his  tale  recounted ! 

Flow  on  for  ever,  Yarrow  stream ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty, 

Well  pleased  that  future  bards  should  chant 
For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty ; 

To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen, 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine, 

And  dearer  still,  as  now  I feel, 

To  memory’s  shadowy  moonshine ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


A SONG  FOB  SEPTEMBER. 

September  strews  the  woodland  o ’er 
With  many  a brilliant  color ; 

The  world  is  brighter  than  before — 
Why  should  our  hearts  be  duller  ? 
Sorrow  and  the  scarlet  leaf, 

Sad  thoughts  and  sunny  weather ! 
Ah  me ! this  glory  and  this  grief 
Agree  not  well  together. 


This  is  the  parting  season — this 
The  time  when  friends  are  flying ; 
And  lovers  now,  with  many  a kiss, 
Their  long  farewells  are  sighing. 
Why  is  Earth  so  gayly  drest  ? 

This  pomp,  that  Autumn  beareth, 

A funeral  seems,  where  every  guest 
A bridal  garment  weareth. 

Each  one  of  us,  perchance,  may  here, 
On  some  blue  morn  hereafter, 
Return  to  view  the  gaudy  year, 

But  not  with  boyish  laughter. 

We  shall  then  be  wrinkled  men, 

Our  brows  with  silver  laden, 

And  thou  this  glen  may  ’st  seek  again, 
But  nevermore  a maiden ! 

Nature  perhaps  foresees  that  Spring 
Will  touch  her  teeming  bosom, 

And  that  a few  brief  months  will  bring 
The  bird,  the  bee,  the  blossom ; 

Ah ! these  forests  do  not  know — 

Or  would  less  brightly  wither — 

The  virgin  that  adorns  them  so 
Will  never  more  come  hither ! 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 


FIDELITY. 

A barking  sound  the  shepherd  hears, 

A cry  as  of  a dog  or  fox ; 

He  halts, — and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks ; 

And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A stirring  in  a brake  of  fern ; 

And  instantly  a dog  is  seen, 

Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy — 
With  something,  as  the  shepherd  thinks, 
Unusual  in  its  cry  ; 

Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 
All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height ; 

Nor  shout  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear. 
What  is  the  creature  doing  hero  ? 


94 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


It  was  a cove,  a huge  recess, 

That  keeps,  till  June,  December’s  snow ; 

A lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A silent  tarn  below ! 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 

Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling, 
Pathway,  or  cultivated  land, — 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a lonely  cheer ; 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven’s  croak 
In  symphony  austere ; 

Thither  the  rainbow  comes,  the  cloud, 

And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 
And  sunbeams ; and  the  sounding  blast, 
That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past ; 

But  that  enormous  barrier  holds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  awhile 
The  shepherd  stood ; then  makes  his  way 
O’er  rocks  and  stones,  following  the  dog 
As  quickly  as  he  may ; 

Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A human  skeleton  on  the  ground. 

The  appalled  discoverer  with  a sigh 
Looks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 
The  man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear ! 

At  length  upon  the  shepherd’s  mind 
It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear. 

He  instantly  recalled  the  name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came ; 
Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 
On  which  the  traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a wonder,  for  whose  sake 
This  lamentable  tale  I tell ! 

A lasting  monument  of  words 
This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh, 
Repeating  the  same  timid  cry, 

This  dog  had  been  through  three  months’ 
space 

A dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  the  day 
When  this  ill-fated  traveller  died, 

The  dog  had  watched  about  the  spot, 

Or  by  his  master’s  side. 


How  nourished  here  through  such  long  time 
He  knows  who  gave  that  love  sublime, 
And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate ! 

William  Woedswobth. 


TO  MEADOWS. 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green  ; 

Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been 
Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours ; 

Ye  have  beheld  where  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come, 

To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home ; 

You  ’ve  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 

And  seen  them  in  a round ; 

Each  virgin,  like  the  Spring, 

With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

But  now  we  see  none  here 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread, 

And  with  dishevelled  hair 
Adorned  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

You  ’re  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates  alone. 

Kobebt  Hebbick. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 

Thou  blossom,  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven’s  own  blue. 
That  openest  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night ; 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 
O’er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 


AUTUMN.  95 

j 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 

What  the  dream,  but  vain  rebelling, 

Nod  o’er  the  ground-bird’s  hidden  nest. 

If  from  earth  we  sought  to  flee  ? 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com’st  alone, 

’T  is  our  stored  and  ample  dwelling ; 
’T  is  from  it  the  skies  we  see. 

When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 

Wind  and  frost,  and  hour  and  season, 

The  aged  Year  is  near  his  end. 

Land  and  water,  sun  and  shade — 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 

Work  with  these,  as  bids  thy  reason, 
For  they  work  thy  toil  to  aid. 

Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 

Sow  thy  seed,  and  reap  in  gladness ! 

A flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

Man  himself  is  all  a seed ; 

I would  that  thus,  when  I shall  see 

Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness — 
Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 

John  Sterling. 

The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 

Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 

May  look  to  heaven  as  I depart. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 

CORNFIELDS. 

THE  HUSBANDMAN 

When  on  the  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 
From  pastures  dry  and  brown, 

Goes  floating  like  an  idle  thought 
The  fair  white  thistle-down, 

Eaeth,  of  man  the  bounteous  mother, 

0 then  what  joy  to  walk  at  will 
Upon  the  golden  harvest  hill ! 

Feeds  him  still  with  com  and  wine ; 
He  who  best  would  aid  a brother, 

What  joy  in  dreamy  ease  to  lie 

Shares  with  him  these  gifts  divine. 

Amid  a field  new  shorn, 

Many  a power  within  her  bosom, 

And  see  all  round  on  sun-lit  slopes 
The  piled-up  stacks  of  corn ; 

And  send  the  fancy  wandering  o’er 

Noiseless,  hidden,  works  beneath ; 

All  pleasant  harvest-fields  of  yore. 

Hence  are  seed,  and  leaf,  and  blossom, 
Golden  ear  and  clustered  wreath. 

These  to  swell  with  strength  and  beauty 

I feel  the  day — I see  the  field, 

The  quivering  of  the  leaves, 

And  good  old  Jacob  and  his  house 

Is  the  royal  task  of  man ; 

Binding  the  yellow  sheaves ; 

Man’s  a king ; his  throne  is  duty, 

And  at  this  very  hour  I seem 

Since  his  work  on  earth  began. 

To  be  with  Joseph  in  his  dream. 

Bud  and  harvest,  bloom  and  vintage — 

I see  the  fields  of  Bethlehem, 

These,  like  man,  are  fruits  of  earth  ; 

And  reapers  many  a one, 

Stamped  in  clay,  a heavenly  mintage, 

Bending  unto  their  sickles’  stroke — 

All  from  dust  receive  their  birth. 

And  Boaz  looking  on ; 

Barn  and  mill,  and  wine-vat’s  treasures, 

And  Ruth,  the  Moabite  so  fair, 
Among  the  gleaners  stooping  there. 

Earthly  goods  for  earthly  lives — 
These  are  Nature’s  ancient  pleasures ; 

Again  I see  a little  child, 

These  her  child  from  her  derives. 

His  mother’s  sole  delight, — 

96  POEMS  OP 

NATURE. 

God’s  living  gift  unto 

*■ 

The  last  day  spent  with  one 

The  kind  good  Shunammite ; 

Who,  ere  the  morrow’s  sun, 

To  mortal  pangs  I see  him  yield, 

Must  leave  us,  and  for  aye  ? 

And  the  lad  bear  him  from  the  field. 
The  sun-bathed  quiet  of  the  hills, 

0 precious,  precious  moments ! 

Pale  flowers ! ye  ’re  types  of  those ; 
The  saddest,  sweetest,  dearest, 

The  fields  of  Galilee, 

Because,  like  those,  the  nearest 

That  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 

To  an  eternal  close. 

Were  full  of  corn,  I see ; 

And  the  dear  Saviour  takes  his  way 

Pale  flowers ! pale  perishing  flowers ! 

’Mid  ripe  ears  on  the  Sabbath  day. 

I woo  your  gentle  breath — 

0 golden  fields  of  bending  corn, 

I leave  the  Summer  rose 
For  younger,  blither  brows ; 

How  beautiful  they  seem ! 

Tell  me  of  change  and  death. 

The  reaper-folk,  the  piled-up  sheaves, 

Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 

To  me  are  like  a dream. 

The  sunshine  and  the  very  air 
Seem  of  old  time,  and  take  me  there. 

Mart  Howitt. 

AUTUMN  FLOWERS. 

THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest 
of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and 

Those  few  pale  Autumn  flowers, 

meadows  brown  and  sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  aa- 

How  beautiful  they  are ! 

tumn  leaves  lie  dead ; 

Than  all  that  went  before, 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the 

Than  all  the  Summer  store, 

rabbit’s  tread. 

How  lovelier  far ! 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from 

And  why  ? — They  are  the  last ! 

the  shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through 

The  last ! the  last ! the  last ! 

all  the  gloomy  day. 

Oh ! by  that  little  word 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirred 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flow- 

That whisper  of  the  past ! 

ers  that  lately  sprang  and  stood 

Pale  flowers ! pale  perishing  flowers ! 

In  brighter  light,  and  softer  airs,  a beauteous 
sisterhood  ? 

Ye  ’re  types  of  precious  things ; 

Alas ! they  all  are  in  their  graves ; the  gentle  • 

Types  of  those  bitter  moments, 

race  ot  flowers 

That  flit,  like  life’s  enjoyments, 

Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair 

On  rapid,  rapid  wings  : 

and  good  of  ours. 

Last  hours  with  parting  dear  ones, 

The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie ; but  the 
cold  November  rain 

(That  Time  the  fastest  spends) 

Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely 

Last  tears  in  silence  shed, 

ones  again. 

Last  words  half  uttered, 

Last  looks  of  dying  friends. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  per- 

Who but  would  fain  compress 

ished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid 

A life  into  a day, — 

the  summer  glow ; 

O’erflows  the  winding  lane. 

A myriad  insect  voices  flute 
And  rival  throats  reply. 

No  tree,  no  tuft  of  grass  is  mute 
When  autumn  passeth'  by. 


A perfume  rare  of  ripening  leaves 
On  zephyr  pinions  floats, 

And  oft  the  scent  of  browning  sheaves 
Blends  with  the  cricket’s  notes; 

Each  hanging  bough  a censer  swings 
Beneath  the  dreamful  sky, 

And  at  her  feet  rich  fragrance  flings, 
When  autumn  passeth  by. 


The  spiders  thrid  their  gossamer 
With  jewels  for  her  head; 

The  thistles  strew  their  down  for  her 
That  softly  she  may  tread; 

The  brooklet  stills  its  summer  glee 
Whene’er  her  feet  draw  nigh, 

And  gently  drones  the  yellow  bee 
When  autumn  passeth  by. 


Strange  sorceries  the  spirit  bind 
And  w’ork  a haunting  spell; 
Weird  voices  echo  on  the  wind. 
And  whisper  beauty’s  knell. 

At  eventide  a lonely  star 
Comes  forth  to  mourn  on  high, 
And  sheds  its  quivering  light  afar 
When  autumn  passeth  by. 


The  sweetest  song  that  ever  flows 
Hath  sorrow  in  its  strain; 

The  keenest  joy  that  mortal  knows  * 

Is  always  half  a pain. 

So  life  and  death  combine  their  art 
To  charm  the  ear  and  eye, 

And  lovely  pathos  wins  the  heart 
When  autumn  passeth  by. 

—(Samuel  Minturn  Peck. 


>4 


avy  , 
o C.'>  < 


ppi an  Evans , 
ordered  to 


the1 


y in  tin? 
that  re- 
born the 
imirai 
Jie  naval 
of  “Fight- 


mce,  after  scanning  the  lis 
leers,  applied  for  Ludlow 
kg  Bob.”  At  that  time  the  Commander’s  case  wa 
tefore  the  President  unacted  on,  and  Captain  Schley 
ras  sent  to  the  New-York.  Ludlow’s  selection  bv 
admiral  Bunce  to  command  the  flagship  of  the  most 
owefful  American  fleet  afloat  is  regarded  by  naval 
Ifficers  as  a high  tribute  to  his  character  and 
lbility. 


CAPTAIN  BASSETT  DYING. 

IE  AGED  SENATE  OFFICIAL  PROBABLY  HAS  BUT 
A FEW  DAYS  MORE  OF  LIFE. 
Washington,  Oct.  30  (Special).— That  interesting 


irsonality.  Captain  Bassett,  is  lydng  at  his  -heme 
this  city  at  the  point  of  death.  Those  who  are 
|n  regular  attendance  on  him  say  he  can  hardly 
survive  longer  than  two  or  three  days.  The  physi- 
fians  and  nurses  have  given  up  hope,  and  his  death 
is  looked  for  almost  at  any*  moment. . The  old  man's 
strength  is  gradually  vanishing.  Last  night  he  was 
ftoo'  weak  to  turn  himself  over  in  bed.  His  stomach 
unable  to  retain  the  little  nourishment  swallowed. 
[The  irritation  of  this  organ  has  all  along  been  the 
[principal  ailment.  At  his  advanced  age  it  might  be 
[expected  that  there  would  be  a failing  of  all  the 
(powers.  But  the  Captain,  always  a prudent  man, 

! has  husbanded  his  strength,  preserved  his  vitality 
and  retained  until  extreme  old  age  almost  full  pos- 
session of  remarkable  physical  powers.  Captain  Bas- 
sett has  always  enjoyed  the  entire  respect  and  con- 
fidence of  the  public  men  whom  he  has  served  or 
who  have  come  into  personal  relations  with  him 
More  than  that  he  has  had  their  personal  esteer 
and  friendship.  It  is  his  boast  and  his  due  meed 

service 


AUTUMN. 


97 


WH  EX  V 

1 ^ ere  purple  elde 
!th  sumar’a  cr 

T , *>  .. 


BY. 

- 


But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster 
in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in 
autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven, 
as  falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone, 
from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as 
still  such  days  will  come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 
winter  home ; 

When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 
though  all  the  trees  are  still, 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters 
of  the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers 
whose  fragrance  late  he  bore, 

And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by 
the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 
beauty  died, 

The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and 
faded  by  my  side. 

In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 
forests  cast  the  leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have 
a life  so  brief ; 

Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one  like  that 
young  friend  of  ours, 

So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with 
the  flowers. 

William  Cullen  Beyant. 


’TIS  TIIE  LAST  ROSE  OF  SUMMER, 


I ’ll  not  leave  thee,  thou  lone  one, 

To  pine  on  the  stem ; 

Since  the  lovely  are  sleeping, 

Go,  sleep  thou  with  them. 

Thus  kindly  I scatter 
Thy  leaves  o ’er  the  bed 
Where  thy  mates  of  the  garden 
Lie  scentless  and  dead. 

So  soon  may  I follow, 

When  friendships  decay, 

And  from  Love’s  shining  circle 
The  gems  drop  away ! 

When  true  hearts  lie  withered, 

And  fond  ones  are  flown, 

Oh ! who  would  inhabit 
This  bleak  world  alone  ? 

Thomas  Moore. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIES. 

Ay,  this  is  freedom ! — these  pure  skies 
Were  never  stained  with  village  smoke ; 

The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 
Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke. 

Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 

I plant  me  where  the  red  deer  feed 
In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 
No  harriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 

Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I pass. 

In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game ; 

The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 
The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 


’T  is  the  last  rose  of  Summer 
Left  blooming  alone ; 

All  her  lovely  companions 
Are  faded  and  gone ; 

No  flower  of  her  kindred, 

No  rosebud  is  nigh, 

To  reflect  back  her  blushes, 
Or  give  sigh  for  sigh  ! 


Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 
From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge ; 
The  bear  that  marks  my  weapon’s  gleam 
Hides  vainly  in  the  forest’s  edge ; 

In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay ; 

The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 
High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 
Even  in  the  act  of  springing  dies. 


98 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 
Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way — 
Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  with  a train 
Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray ! 

Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 
No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades ; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 
Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frost- winds  sere 
The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 

Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here — 

With  roaring  like  the  battle’s  sound, 

And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 
And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky. 

I meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  Past 
Speaks  solemnly  ; and  I behold 
The  boundless  Future  in  the  vast 
And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 

Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew  ? 

Who  moves,  I ask,  its  gliding  mass, 

And  trains  tire  bordering  vines  whose  blue 
Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 
Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide  : 
Wide  are  these  woods — I thread  the  maze 
Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a guide. 

1 hunt  till  day’s  last  glimmer  dies 
O’er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height ; 

And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes 
That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


MY  HEART’S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 
here; 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 
deer; 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the 
North, 

The  birth-place  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth ; 
Wherever  I wander,  wherever  I rove, 

The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I love. 


Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with 
snow; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys 
below ; 

Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging 
woods ; 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring 
floods. 

My  heart ’s  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 
here, 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the 
deer; 

Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 

My  heart’s  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I go. 

Robert  Burns. 


THE  HUNTER’S  SONG. 

Rise  ! Sleep  no  more ! ’T  is  a noble  morn. 
The  dews  hang  thick  on  the  fringed  thorn, 
And  the  frost  shrinks  back,  like  a beaten 
hound, 

Under  the  steaming,  steaming  ground, 
Behold,  where  the  billowy  clouds  flow  by, 
And  leave  us  alone  in  the  clear  gray  sky ! 
Our  horses  are  ready  and  steady. — So,  ho ! 
I’m  gone,  like  a dart  from  the  Tartar’s  bow. 
Hark:  hark  ! — Who  calleth  the  maiden  Morn 
From  her  sleep  in'  the  woods  and  the  stubble 
corn  ? 

The  horn , — the  horn  ! 

The  merry , sweet  ring  of  the  hunter's  horn . 

Now,  through  the  copse  where  the  fox  is 
found, 

And  over  the  stream  at  a mighty  bound, 

And  over  the  high  lands,  and  over  the  low, 
O’er  furrows,  o’er  meadows,  the  hunters  go ! 
Away ! — as  a hawk  flies  full  at  his  prey, 

So  flieth  the  hunter,  away, — away ! 

From  the  burst  at  the  cover  till  set  of  sun, 
When  the  red  fox  dies,  and — the  day  is  done ! 
Mark , hark  ! — What  sound  on  the  wind  is 
borne  ? 

’ T is  the  conquering  voice  of  the  hunter* s horn : 
The  horn , — the  horn  ! 

The  merry , bold  voice  of  the  hunter's  horn. 


AUTUMN. 


99 


Sound ! Sound  the  horn ! To  the  hunter  good 
What ’s  the  gully  deep  or  the  roaring  flood  ? 
Right  over  he  bounds,  as  the  wild  stag  hounds, 
At  the  heels  of  his  swift,  sure,  silent  hounds. 
0,  what  delight  can  a mortal  lack, 

When  he  once  is  firm  on  his  horse’s  back, 
With  his  stirrups  short,  and  his  snaffle  strong, 
And  the  blast  of  the  horn  for  his  morning 
song? 

Hark,  hark! — Now,  home!  and  dream  till 
morn 

Of  the  bold,  sweet  sound  of  the  hunter's  horn! 
The  horn, — the  horn  ! 

0 , the  sound  of  all  sounds  is  the  hunter's  horn! 

Barry  Cornwall. 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ? Ay,  where 
are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them — thou  hast  thy  music 
too : 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day, 
And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue ; 
Then  in  a wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 
Among  the  river  sallows,  borne  aloft 
Or  sinking,  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies ; 
And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly 
bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing ; and  now  with  treble 
soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a garden-croft, 
And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the 
skies. 

John  Keats. 

TO  AUTUMN. 

AUTUMN — A DIRGE. 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fruitfulness ! 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun! 
Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 
With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch- 
eaves  run — 

To  bend  with  apples  the  mossed  cottage  trees, 
And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core — 
To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel 
shells 

With  a sweet  kernel — to  set  budding,  more 
And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 
Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease, 
For  Summer  has  o’er-brimmed  their 
clammy  cells. 

The  warm  sun  is  failing ; the  bleak  wind  is 
wailing; 

The  bare  boughs  are  sighing;  the  pale  flowers 
are  dying ; 

And  the  Year 

On  the  earth,  her  death-bed,  in  shroud  of 
leaves  dead, 

Is  lying. 

Come,  months,  come  away, 

From  November  to  May; 

In  your  saddest  array, 

Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 

Ana  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 

Thee  sitting  careless  on  a granary  floor, 

Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind; 

Or  on  a half-reaped  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while 
thy  hook 

Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined 
flowers ; 

And  sometime  like  a gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a brook ; 

Or  by  a cider-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by 
hours. 

The  chill  rain  is  falling ; the  nipt  worm  is 
crawling ; 

The  rivers  are  swelling ; the  thunder  is  knell- 
ing 

For  the  Year ; 

The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards 
each  gone 

To  his  dwelling ; 

Come,  months,  come  away ; 

Put  on  white,  black,  and  gray ; 

Let  your  light  sisters  play — 

Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead,  cold  Year, 

And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 

Percy  Byssiie  Shelley 

100 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


AUTUMN. 

The  Autumn  is  old ; 

The  sere  leaves  are  flying ; 

He  hath  gathered  up  gold, 

And  now  he  is  dying : 

Old  age,  begin  sighing  l 

The  vintage  is  ripe  ; 

The  harvest  is  heaping ; 

But  some  that  have  sowed 
Have  no  riches  for  reaping : — 

Poor  wretch,  fall  a-weeping ! 

The  year’s  in  the  wane; 

There  is  nothing  adorning ; 

The  night  has  no  eve, 

And  the  day  has  no  morning ; 

Cold  winter  gives  warning. 

The  rivers  run  chill ; 

The  red  sun  is  sinking; 

And  I am  grown  old, 

And  life  is  fast  shrinking ; 

Here’s  enow  for  sad  thinking ! 

Thomas  Hood, 


THE  LATTER  RAIN. 

The  latter  rain, — it  falls  in  anxious  haste 
Upon  the  sun-dried  fields  and  branches  bare, 
Loosening  with  searching  drops  the  rigid 
waste 

As  if  it  would  each  root’s  lost  strength  repair ; 
But  not  a blade  grows  green  as  in  the  Spring ; 
No  swelling  twig  puts  forth  its  thickening 
leaves ; 

The  robins  only  mid  the  harvests  sing, 
Pecking  the  grain  that  scatters  from  the 
sheaves ; 

The  rain  falls  still, — the  fruit  all  ripened 
drops, 

It  pierces  chestnut-burr  and  walnut-shell ; 
The  furrowed  fields  disclose  the  yellow  crops ; 
Each  bursting  pod  of  talents  used  can  tell ; 
And  all  that  once  received  the  early  rain 
Declare  to  man  it  was  not  sent  in  vain. 

Jones  Very. 


AUTUMN’S  SIGHING. 

Autumn’s  sighing, 
Moaning,  dying; 

Clouds  are  flying 
On  like  steeds ; 

While  their  shadows 
O’er  the  meadows 
Walk  like  widows 
Decked  in  weeds. 

Red  leaves  trailing, 

Fall  unfailing, 

Dropping,  sailing, 

From  the  wood, 

That,  unpliant, 

Stands  defiant, 

Like  a giant 
Dropping  blood. 

Winds  are  swelling 
Round  our  dwelling, 

All  day  telling 
Us  their  woe ; 

And  at  vesper 
Frosts  grow  crisper, 

As  they  whisper 
Of  the  snow. 

From  th’  unseen  land 
Frozen  inland, 

Down  from  Greenland 
Winter  glides, 
Shedding  lightness 
Like  the  brightness 
When  moon-whiteness 
Fills  the  tides. 

Now  bright  Pleasure’s 
Sparkling  measures 
With  rare  treasures 
Overflow ! 

With  this  gladness 
Comes  what  sadness ! 
Oh,  what  madness ! 

Oh,  what  woe  I 

Even  merit 
May  inherit 
Some  bare  garret, 

Or  the  ground ; 


GRONGAR  HILL.  101 


Or,  a worse  ill, 
Beg  a morsel 
At  some  door  sill, 
Like  a hound ! 


Storms  are  trailing ; 

Winds  are  wailing, 

Howling,  railing 
At  each  door. 

’Midst  this  trailing, 

Howling,  railing, 

List  the  wailing 
Of  the  poor ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Bead. 


THE  IVY  GREEK 

On ! a dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o ’er  ruins  old ! 

Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals  I ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 

The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones  de- 
cayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 

And  the  mould ’ring  dust  that  years  have 
made 

Is  a merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no 
wings, 

And  a staunch  old  heart  has  he ! 

How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 
To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak  tree ! 

And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 

And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men’s  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  de- 
cayed, 

And  nations  scattered  been ; 

But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 
From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 


The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 
Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 

For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  Ivy’s  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens. 


NOVEMBER. 

The  mellow  year  is  hasting  to  its  close ; 

The  little  birds  have  almost  sung  their  last, 
Their  small  notes  twitter  in  the  dreary  blast — 
That  shrill-piped  harbinger  of  early  snows ; 
The  patient  beauty  of  the  scentless  rose, 

Oft  with  the  morn’s  hoar  crystal  quaintly 
glassed, 

Hangs,  a pale  mourner  for  the  summer  past, 
And  makes  a little  summer  where  it  grows. 
In  the  chill  sunbeam  of  the  faint  brief  day 
The  dusky  waters  shudder  as  they  shine ; 
The  russet  leaves  obstruct  the  straggling  way 
Of  oozy  brooks,  which  no  deep  banks  define ; 
And  the  gaunt  woods,  in  ragged,  scant  array, 
Wrap  their  old  limbs  with  sombre  ivy  twine. 

Hartley  Coleridge. 


GRONGAR  HILL. 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye ! 

Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 
On  the  mountain’s  lonely  van, 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man — 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings, 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale — 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse. 

Now,  while  Phoebus,  riding  high, 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky, 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song — 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong ; 
Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 
Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made, 


102 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


So  oft  I have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a rill, 

Sat  upon  a flowery  bed, 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 

While  strayed  my  eyes  o ’er  Towy’s  flood, 
Over  mead  and  over  wood, 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  checkered  sides  I wind, 

And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I lay, 

And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 

As  circles  on  a smooth  canal. 

The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate ! 

Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height, 

Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 

Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 

Adds  a thousand  woods  and  meads  ; 

Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 

And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Now  I gain  the  mountain’s  brow ; 

What  a landscape  lies  below ! 

No  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene  ; 

But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven’s  bow ! 

And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 

Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 

Proudly  tow  ’ring  in  the  skies ; 

Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires ; 

Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 

And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks. 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes  : 

The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 

The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew, 

The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 

The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs  ; 
And  beyond,  the  purple  grove, 

Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love ! 

Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 

Lies  a long  and  level  lawn, 

On  which  a dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 

Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye  ; 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy’s  flood : 


His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood  ; 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 

That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 

Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 

And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps ; 

So  both,  a safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutual  dependence  find. 

’T  is  now  the  raven’s  bleak  abode ; 

’T  is  now  tk’  apartment  of  the  toad ; 

And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds ; 

And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds ; 

While,  ever  and  anon,  there  fall 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary,  mouldered  wall. 

Yet  Time  has  seen — that  lifts  the  low 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow — 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 

Big  with  the  vanity  of  state. 

But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  S 
A little  rule,  a little  sway, 

A sunbeam  in  a winter’s  day, 

Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers,  how  they  run 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow — 

Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A various  journey  to  the  deep, 

Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep ! 

Thus  is  Nature’s  vesture  wrought 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 

Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 

When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view  ! 

The  fountain’s  fall,  the  river’s  flow ; 

The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low ; 

The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 

Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ; 

The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower. 

The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm— 

Each  gives  each  a double  charm, 

As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop’s  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain’s  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 

Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide, 

How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie ; 

What  streaks  of  meadow  cross  the  eye ! 

A step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream, 

So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 


EVENING. 


103 


So  we  mistake  the  Future’s  face, 

Eyed  through  Hope’s  deluding  glass ; 

As  yon  summits,  soft  and  fair, 

Clad  in  colors  of  the  air, 

Which  to  those  who  journey  near, 

Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear ; 

Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way — 

The  present ’s  still  a cloudy  day. 

O may  I with  myself  agree, 

And  never  covet  what  I see ; 

Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 

My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid ; 

For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 

We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul. 

’T  is  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 

And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

How,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 

As  on  the  mountain  turf  I lie  ; 

While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 

And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 

While  the  waters  murmur  deep ; 

While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep  ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 

And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts ; be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill ; 

Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 

Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 

In  vain  you  search  ; she  is  not  here ! 

In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 

On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads, 

Along  with  Pleasure — close  allied, 

Ever  by  each  other’s  side ; 

And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 

Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

John  Dyee. 


FOLDING  THE  FLOCKS. 

SnEPnERDS  all,  and  maidens  fair, 
Fold  your  flocks  up ; for  the  air 
’Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 
Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 
See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 
Every  little  flower  that  is ; 


Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a string  of  crystal  beads. 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low  falling, 

And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 
The  dead  night  from  under  ground ; 

At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapors,  fly  apace, 

And  hover  o ’er  the  smiling  face 
Of  these  pastures ; where  they  come, 
Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 
Therefore  from  such  danger  lock 
Every  one  his  loved  flock ; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a scout 
From  the  mountain,  and  ere  day, 

Bear  a lamb  or  kid  away ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  fox, 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

So  shall  you  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  deserve  your  master’s  love. 

Now,  good  night ! may  sweetest  slumbers 
And  soft  silence  fall  in  numbers 
On  your  eyelids.  So  farewell : 

Thus  I end  my  evening  knell. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcheb. 


BUGLE  SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 
And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 

The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow!  set  the  wild  echoes  fly- 
ing: 

Blow,  bugle ; answer,  echoes — dying,  dying, 
dying ! 

O hark,  O hear ! how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  further  going ! 

O sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 

Blow ! let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  reply- 
ing: 

Blow,  bugle ; answer,  echoes — dying,  dying, 
dying ! 


J 


104 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


i 


0 love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky  ; 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 

Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 

Blow,  bugle,  blow ! set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer — dying,  dying, 
dying ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  EVENING  WIND. 

Spirit  that  breathest  through  my  lattice ! thou 
That  cool’st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day ! 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my 
brow; 

Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering 
high  their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.  I welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the 
sea! 

Nor  I alone — a thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  np,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And  languishing  to  hear  thy  welcome  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland,  stretched  beyond  the 
sight. 

Go  forth  into  the  gathering  shade;  go  forth — 

God’s  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting 
earth ! 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest ; 
Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars ; and 
rouse 

The  wide,  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 
Summoning,  from  the  innumerable  boughs, 

The  strange  deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his 
breast. 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly 
bows 

The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 

And  where  the  o’ershadowing  branches  sweep 
the  grass. 


Stoop  o’er  the  place  of  graves,  and  softly  sway 
The  sighing  herbage  by  the  gleaming  stone ; 
That  they  who  near  the  churchyard  willows 
stray, 

And  listen  in  the  deepening  gloom,  alone, 
May  think  of  gentle  souls  that  passed  away, 
Like  thy  pure  breath,  into  the  vast  unknown, 
Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of 
men, 

And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child 
asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows 
more  deep ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man’s  bed 
Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 
And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 
Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  Nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty 
range, 

Thee  to  thy  birth-place  of  the  deep  once 
more. 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea  air,  sweet  and  strange, 
Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the 
shore ; 

And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stream. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


EVENING. 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 
And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below, 
Through  all  the  dewy-tasselled  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 
In  ripples — fan  my  brows  and  blow 


EVENING. 


105 


The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 
The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,  till  Doubt  and  Death, 
El  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas, 

On  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 

To  where,  in  yonder  orient  star, 

A hundred  spirits  whisper  “Peace!  ” 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song, 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest 
ear, 

Like  thy  own  brawling  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales — 

O Nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright- 
haired Sun 

Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts, 
With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O’erhang  his  wavy  bed. 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak- 
eyed  bat 

With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern 
wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 
His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  ’midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain, 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  dark- 
ening vale, 

May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit; 

As,  musing  slow,  I hail 
Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding  star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 
The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 
Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 


And  many  a nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows 
with  sedge, 

And  sheds  the  freshening  dew ; and,  lovelier 
still, 

The  pensive  pleasures  sweet, 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy 
scene ; 

Or  find  some  ruin,  ’midst  its  dreary  dell’s, 
Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 
By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 
That,  from  the  mountain’s  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim  discovered 
spires ; 

And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o’er 
all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft 
he  wont, 

And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ! 
While  Summer  loves  to  sport 
Beneath  thy  lingering  light ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 
Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

• Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling 
Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favorite  name ! 

William  Collins. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 

And  sett’st  the  weary  laborer  free ! 

If  any  star  shed  peace,  ’t  is  thou, 

That  send’st  it  from  above, 

Appearing  when  Heaven’s  breath  and  brow 
Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 


106 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 

"Whilst  the  landscape’s  odors  rise, 

Whilst,  far  off,  lowing  herds  are  heard, 
And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 

From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirred 
Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love’s  soft  interviews, 

Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse ; 

Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 
Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 

Too  delicious  to  he  riven, 

By  absence,  from,  the  heart. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


EVENING  IN  THE  ALPS. 

Come,  golden  Evening ! in  the  west 
Enthrone  the  storm-dispelling  sun, 

And  let  the  triple  rainbow  rest 

O’er,  all  the  mountain-tops.  ’Tis  done ; — 
The  tempest  ceases ; hold  and  bright, 

The  rainbow  shoots  from  hill  to  hill : 
Down  sinks  the  sun ; on  presses  night ; — 
Mont  Blanc  is  lovely  still ! 

There  take  thy  stand,  my  spirit ; — spread 
The  world  of  shadows  at  thy  feet ; 

And  mark  how  calmly,  overhead, 

The  stars,  like  saints  in  glory,  meet. 

While  hid  in  solitude  sublime, 

Methinks  I muse  on  Nature’s  tomb, 

And  hear  the  passing  foot  of  Time 
Stop  through  the  silent  gloom. 

All  in  a moment,  crash  on  crash, 

From  precipice  to  precipice 
An  avalanche’s  ruins  dash 
Down  to  the  nethermost  abyss, 

Invisible  ; the  ear  alone 
Pursues  the  uproar  till  it  dies ; 

Echo  to  echo,  groan  for  groan, 

From  deep  to  deep  replies. 

Silence  again  the  darkness  seals, 

Darkness  that  may  be  felt ; — but  soon 
The  silver-clouded  east  reveals 
The  midnight  spectre  of  the  moon. 


In  half-eclipse  she  lifts  her  horn, 

Yet  o’er  the  host  of  heaven  supreme 
Brings  the  faint  semblance  of  a morn, 

With  her  awakening  beam. 

Ah ! at  her  touch,  these  Alpine  heights 
Unreal  mockeries  appear ; 

With  blacker  shadows,  ghastlier  lights, 
Emerging  as  she  climbs  the  sphere ; 

A crowd  of  apparitions  pale ! 

I hold  my  breath  in  chill  suspense — 

They  seem  so  exquisitely  frail — 

Lest  they  should  vanish  hence. 

I breathe  again,  I freely  breathe ; 

Thee,  Leman’s  Lake,  once  more  I trace, 
Like  Dian’s  crescent  far  beneath, 

As  beautiful  as  Dian’s  face : 

Pride  of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth ! 

All  that  thy  waves  reflect  I love, 

Where  heaven  itself,  brought  down  to  earth, 
Looks  fairer  than  above. 

Safe  on  thy  banks  again  I stray ; 

The  trance  of  poesy  is  o’er, 

And  I am  here  at  dawn  of  day, 

Gazing  on  mountains  as  before, 

Where  all  the  strange  mutations  wrought 
Were  magic  feats  of  my  own  mind ; 

For,  in  that  fairy  land  of  thought, 

Whate’er  I seek,  I find. 

Yet,  0 ye  everlasting  hills ! 

Buildings  of  God,  not  made  with  hands, 
Whose  word  performs  whate’er  He  wills, 
Whose  word,  though  ye  shall  perish,  stands; 
Can  there  be  eyes  that  look  on  you, 

Till  tears  of  rapture  make  them  dim, 

Nor  in  his  works  the  Maker  view, 

Then  lose  his  works  in  Him  ? 

By  me,  when  I behold  Him  not, 

Or  love  Him  not  when  I behold, 

Be  all  I ever  knew  forgot — 

My  pulse  stand  still,  my  heart  grow  cold ; 
Transformed  to  ice,  ’twixt  earth  and  sky, 

On  yonder  cliff  my  form  be  seen, 

That  all  may  ask,  but  none  reply, 

What  my  offence  hath  been. 

James  Montgomery. 


MOONRISE. 


10^7 


TO  CYNTHIA. 

Queen-  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 
Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 

Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 

Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 
Dare  itself  to  interpose ; 

Cynthia’s  shining  orb  was  made 
Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close ; 
Bless  us,  then,  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  how  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver ; 
Give  unto  thy  flying  hart 
Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever; 
Thou  that  makest  a day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


MOONRISE. 

WnAT  stands  upon  the  highland? 

What  walks  across  the  rise, 

As  though  a starry  island 
Were  sinking  down  the  skies? 

What  makes  the  trees  so  golden  ? 

What  decks  the  mountain  side, 
Like  a veil  of  silver  folden 
Round  the  white  brow  of  a bride  ? 

The  magic  moon  is  breaking, 

Like  a conqueror,  from  the  east, 
The  waiting  world  awaking 
To  a golden  fairy  feast. 

She  works,  with  touch  ethereal, 

By  changes  strange  to  see, 

The  cypress,  so  funereal, 

To  a lightsome  fairy  tree ; 

Black  rocks  to  marble  turning, 

Like  palaces  of  kings ; 

On  ruin  windows  burning, 

A festal  glory  flings ; 


The  desert  halls  uplighting, 

While  falling  shadows  glance, 

T ike  courtly  crowds  uniting 
For  the  banquet  or  the  dance ; 

With  ivory  wand  she  numbers 
The  stars  along  the  sky ; 

And  breaks  the  billows’  slumbers 
With  a love  glance  of  her  eye ; 

Along  the  cornfields  dances, 

Brings  bloom  upon  the  sheaf; 

From  tree  to  tree  she  glances, 

And  touches  leaf  by  leaf ; 

Wakes  birds  that  sleep  in  shadows; 
Thro’  their  half-closed  eyelids  gleams ; 

With  her  white  torch  thro’  the  meadows 
Lights  the  shy  deer  to  the  streams. 

The  magic  moon  is  breaking, 

Like  a conqueror,  from  the  east, 

And  the  joyous  world  partaking 
Of  her  golden  fairy  feast. 

Ernest  Jones. 


SONNET. 

The  crimson  Moon,  uprising  from  the  sea, 
With  large  delight  foretells  the  harvest  near. 
Ye  shepherds,  now  prepare  your  melody, 

To  greet  the  soft  appearance  of  her  sphere ! 

And  like  a page,  enamored  of  her  train, 

The  star  of  evening  glimmers  in  the  west : 
Then  raise,  ye  shepherds,  your  observant 
strain, 

That  so  of  the  Great  Shepherd  here  are  blest ! 

• 

Our  fields  are  full  with  the  time-ripened  grain, 
Our  vineyards  with  the  purple  clusters  swell ; 
Her  golden  splendor  glimmers  on  the  main, 
And  vales  and  mountains  her  bright  glory 
tell. 

Then  sing,  ye  shepherds ! for  the  time  is  come 
When  we  must  bring  the  enriched  harvest 
home. 


Lord  Thurlow. 


108 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON. 

Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver : 

Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  turgent. 

Cuncta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret. 

Virgil. 

Moon  of  Harvest,  herald  mild 
Of  Plenty,  rustic  labor’s  child, 

Hail ! oh  hail ! I greet  thy  beam, 

As  soft  it  trembles  o’er  the  stream, 

And  gilds  the  straw-thatched  hamlet  wide, 
Where  Innocence  and  Peace  reside ! 

’T  is  thou  that  gladd’st  with  joy  the  rustic 
throng, 

Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  the  exhilarat- 
ing song. 

Moon  of  Harvest,  I do  love 
O’er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 

While  thy  modest  ray  serene 
Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene  ; 

And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 
In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 

Where  no  thin  vapor  intercepts  thy  ray, 

But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on 
thy  way. 

Pleasing ’t  is,  oh ! modest  Moon ! 

Now  the  night  is  at  her  noon, 

’Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 

While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh, 

Fanning  soft  the  sun-tanned  wheat, 
Ripened  by  the  summer’s  heat ; 

Picturing  all  the  rustic’s  joy 
When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye, 

And  thinking  soon, 

Oh,  modest  Moon ! 

How  many  a female  eye  will  roajn 
Along  the  road, 

To  see  the  load, 

The  last  dear  load  of  harvest-home. 

Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 
Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 

Hence,  away,  the  season  flee, 

Foes  to  light-heart  jollity ! 


May  no  winds  careering  high 
Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky, 

But  may  all  Nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
When  in  the  heavens  thou  show’st  thy  face, 
oh  Harvest  Moon ! 

’Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies, 

The  husbandman,  with  sleep-sealed  eyes : 
He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound ; 

Oh ! may  no  hurricane  destroy 
His  visionary  views  of  joy ! 

God  of  the  winds ! oh,  hear  his  humble  prayer, 
And  while  the  Moon  of  Harvest  shines,  thy 
blustering  whirlwind  spare. 

Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 

Leave  I Sleep’s  dull  power  to  woo ; 

Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 

While  feverish  dreams  surround  your  head; 
I will  seek  the  woodland  glade, 

Penetrate  the  thickest  shade, 

Wrapped  in  Contemplation’s  dreams, 
Musing  high  on  holy  themes, 

While  on  the  gale 
Shall  softly  sail 

The  nightingale’s  enchanting  tune, 

And  oft  my  eyes 
Shall  grateful  rise 

To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon ! 

Henry  Kirke  White. 


NIGHT  SONG. 

The  moon  is  up  in  splendor, 

And  golden  stars  attend  her ; 

The  heavens  are  calm  and  bright ; 
Trees  cast  a deepening  shadow, 

And  slowly  off  the  meadow 
A mist  is  rising  silver-white. 

Night’s  curtains  now  are  closing 
’Round  half  a world  reposing 
In  calm  and  holy  trust. 

All  seems  one  vast,  still  chamber, 
Where  weary  hearts  remember 
No  more  the  sorrows  of  the  dust. 

Matthias  Claudius.  (German.) 
Translation  of  C.  T.  Brooks. 


THE  OWL. 


109 


TO  NIGHT. 

Mysterious  Night!  when  our  first  parent 
knew 

Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

Yet  ’neath  the  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 

And  lo ! creation  widened  in  man’s  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay 
concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  O Sun ! or  who  could  find, 
While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  lay  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad’st  us 
blind ! 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  Death  with  anxious 
strife  ? — 

If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 

Blanco  White. 


THE  OWL. 

In  the  hollow  tree,  in  the  old  gray  tower, 
The  spectral  Owl  doth  dwell ; 

Dull,  hated,  despised  in  the  sunshine  hour, 
But  at  dusk  he’s  abroad  and  well ! 

Not  a bird  of  the  forest  e’er  mates  with  him — 
All  mock  him  outright,  by  day  ; 

But  at  night,  when  the  woods  grow  still  and 
dim, 

The  boldest  will  shrink  away ! 

0,  when  the  night  falls , and  roosts  the  fowl, 
Then  then , is  the  reign  of  the  Horned  Owl! 

And  the  Owl  hath  a bride  who  is  fond  and 
bold, 

And  loveth  the  wood’s  deep  gloom ; 

And,  with  eyes  like  the  shine  of  the  moon- 
stone cold, 

She  awaiteth  her  ghastly  groom. 

Not  a feather  she  moves,  not  a carol  she  sings, 
As  she  waits  in  her  tree  so  still, 

But  when  her  heart  heareth  his  flapping 
wings, 

She  hoots  out  her  welcome  shrill ! 


0 — when  the  moon  shines , and  dogs  do  howl, 
Then,  then,  is  the  joy  of  the  Horned  Owl ! 

Mourn  not  for  the  Owl,  nor  his  gloomy  plight ; 

The  Owl  hath  his  share  of  good : 

If  a prisoner  he  be  in  the  broad  daylight, 

He  is  lord  in  the  dark  greenwood ! 

Nor  lonely  the  bird,  nor  his  ghastly  mate — 
They  are  each  unto  each  a pride  ; 

Thrice  fonder  perhaps,  since  a strange,  dark 
fate 

Hath  rent  them  from  all  beside ! 

So,  when  the  night  falls,  and  dogs  do  howl, 
Sing  Ho  ! for  the  reign  of  the  Horned  Owl ! 
We  Jcnow  not  alway 
Who  are  Icings  hy  day, 

But  the  King  of  the  night  is  the  hold  hrown 
Owl! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


SONG.— THE  OWL. 

When  cats  run  home  and  light  is  come, 
And  dew  is  cold  upon  the  ground, 

And  the  far-off  stream  is  dumb, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round, 

And  the  whirring  sail  goes  round ; 
Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 

When  merry  milkmaids  click  the  latch, 
And  rarely  smells  the  new-mown  hay, 
And  the  cock  hath  sung  beneath  the  thatch 
Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay, 

Twice  or  thrice  his  roundelay ; 

Alone  and  warming  his  five  wits, 

The  white  owl  in  the  belfry  sits. 


SECOND  SONG — TO  TTIE  SAME. 

Tiiy  tuwhits  are  lulled,  I wot, 

Thy  tuwlioos  of  yesternight, 
Which,  upon  the  dark  afloat, 

So  took  echo  with  delight, 

So  took  echo  with  delight, 

That  her  voice,  untuneful  grown, 
Wears  all  day  a fainter  tone. 


110 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


I would  mock  thy  chaunt  anew ; 

But  I cannot  mimic  it ; 

Not  a whit  of  thy  tuwhoo, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

Thee  to  woo  to  thy  tuwhit, 

With  a lengthened  loud  halloo, 
Tuwhoo,  tuwhit,  tuwhit,  tuwhoo-o-o. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  OWL. 

While  the  moon,  with  sudden  gleam, 
Through  the  clouds  that  cover  her, 
Darts  her  light  upon  the  stream, 

And  the  poplars  gently  stir ; 

Pleased  I hear  thy  boding  cry, 

Owl,  that  lov’st  the  cloudy  sky ! 
Sure  thy  notes  are  harmony. 

While  the  maiden,  pale  with  care, 
Wanders  to  the  lonely  shade, 

Sighs  her  sorrows  to  the  air, 

While  the  flowerets  round  her  fade, — 
Shrinks  to  hear  thy  boding  cry  ; 
Owl,  that  lov’st  the  cloudy  sky, 

To  her  it  is  not  harmony. 

While  the  wretch,  with  mournful  dole, 
Wrings  his  hands  in  agony, 

Praying  for  his  brother’s  soul, 

Whom  he  pierced  suddenly, — 

Shrinks  to  hear  thy  boding  cry ; 
Owl,  that  lov’st  the  cloudy  sky, 

To  him  it  is  not  harmony. 

ANONYMOUS. 


TO  A CRICKET. 

Voice  of  Summer,  keen  and  shrill, 
Chirping  round  my  winter  fire, 

Of  thy  song  I never  tire, 

Weary  others  as  they  will; 

For  thy  song  with  Summer ’s  filled — 
Filled  with  sunshine,  filled  with  June; 
Firelight  echo  of  that  noon 
Hears  in  fields  when  all  is  stilled 


In  the  golden  light  of  May, 

Bringing  scents  of  new-mown  hay, 
Bees,  and  birds,  and  flowers  away : 
Prithee,  haunt  my  fireside  still, 

Voice  of  Summer,  keen  and  shrill ! 

"William  C.  Bejutett. 


THE  CRICKET. 

Little  inmate,  full  of  mirth, 

Chirping  on  my  kitchen  hearth, 
Wheresoe’er  be  thine  abode 
Always  harbinger  of  good, 

Pay  me  for  thy  warm  retreat 
With  a song  more  soft  and  sweet ; 

In  return  thou  shalt  receive 
Such  a strain  as  I can  give. 

Thus  thy  praise  shall  be  expressed, 
Inoffensive,  welcome  guest ! 

While  the  rat  is  on  the  scout, 

And  the  mouse  with  curious  snout, 
With  what  vermin  else  infest 
Every  dish,  and  spoil  the  best ; 
Frisking  thus  before  the  fire, 

Thou  hast  all  thine  heart’s  desire. 

Though  in  voice  and  shape  they  be 
Formed  as  if  akin  to  thee, 

Thou  surpassest,  happier  far, 

Happiest  grasshoppers  that  are ; 

Theirs  is  but  a summer’s  song — 

Thine  endures  the  winter  long, 
Unimpaired,  and  shrill,  and  clear, 
Melody  throughout  the  year. 

William  Cowpek. 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  SWALLOW. 

And  is  the  swallow  gone  ? 

Who  beheld  it  ? 

Which  way  sailed  it  ? 

Farewell  bade  it  none  ? 

No  mortal  saw  it  go : — 

But  who  doth  hear 
Its  summer  cheer 
As  it  flitteth  to  and  fro  ? 


WINTER  FANCIES. 


Ill 


So  the  freed  spirit  flies ! 

From  its  surrounding  clay 
It  steals  away 

Like  the  swallow  from  the  skies. 

Whither  ? wherefore  doth  it  go  ? 

’T  is  all  unknown ; 

We  feel  alone 
That  a void  is  left  below. 

William  Howitt. 


FANCY. 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam ; 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth ; 

Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 
Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her ; 
Open  wide  the  mind’s  cage-door — 

She  ’ll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O sweet  Fancy ! let  her  loose ! 

Summer’s  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming. 

Autumn’s  red-lipped  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting.  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a winter’s  night ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
From  the  ploughboy’s  heavy  shoon ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a mind  self-overawed, 

Fancy,  high-commissioned : — send  her ! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her ; 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; — 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray ; 

All  the  heaped  Autumn’s  wealth  ; — 

With  a still,  mysterious  stealth  ; 


She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a cup, 

And  thou  shalt  quaff  it, — thou  shalt  hear 
Distant  harvest-carols  clear — 

Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn ; 

Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  ; 

And,  in  the  same  moment — hark  ! 

’T  is  the  early  April  lark, — 

Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 

Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 

Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May ; 

And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 

Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 

And  the  snake,  all  winter-thin, 

Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin ; 

Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 

When  the  hen-bird’s  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 

Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy ! let  her  loose  ! 

Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use ; 

Where ’s  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ? Where ’s  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 

Where ’s  the  eye,  however  blue, 

Doth  not  weary  ? Where ’s  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 

Where ’s  the  voice,  however  soft, 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 
Thee  a mistress  to  thy  mind  : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres’  daughter 
Ere  the  god  of  Torment  taught  her 
How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide ; 

With  a waist  and  with  a side 
White  as  Hebe’s  when  her  zone 
Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 


112 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 
Of  the  Fancy’s  silken  leash ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she  ’ll  bring. — 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam; 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

John  Keats. 


THE  WINDY  NIGHT. 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 

How  the  midnight  tempests  howl ! 

With  a dreary  voice,  like  the  dismal  tune 
Of  wolves  that  bay  at  the  desert  moon  ; 
Or  whistle  and  shriek 
Through  limbs  that  creak. 

“ Tu-who ! Tu-whit ! ” 

They  cry,  and  flit, 

“ Tu-whit ! Tu-who ! ” like  the  solemn  owl ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 

Sweep  the  moaning  winds  amain, 

And  wildly  dash 
The  elm  and  ash, 

Clattering  on  the  window  sash 

With  a clatter  and  patter 
Like  hail  and  rain, 

That  well  nigh  shatter 
The  dusky  pane ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 

How  the  tempests  swell  and  roar ! 

Though  no  foot  is  astir, 

Though  the  cat  and  the  cur 
Lie  dozing  along  the  kitchen  floor, 

There  are  feet  of  air 
On  every  stair — 

Through  every  hall ! 

Through  each  gusty  door 
There’s  a jostle  and  bustle, 

With  a silken  rustle, 

Like  the  meeting  of  guests  at  a festival ! 


Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 

How  the  stormy  tempests  swell ! 

And  make  the  vane 
On  the  spire  complain ; 

They  heave  at  the  steeple  with  might  and  main, 
And  burst  and  sweep 
Into  the  belfry,  on  the  bell ! 

They  smite  it  so  hard,  and  they  smite  it  so  well, 
That  the  sexton  tosses  his  arms  in  sleep, 
And  dreams  he  is  ringing  a funeral  knell ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Bead. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  WIND. 

Motjknfully!  O,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  sigh, 

Like  some  sweet,  plaintive  melody 
Of  ages  long  gone  by ! 

It  speaks  a tale  of  other  years, — 

Of  hopes  that  bloomed  to  die, — 

Of  sunny  smiles  that  set  in  tears, 

And  loves  that  mouldering  lie ! 

Mournfully ! O,  mournfully 

This  midnight  wind  doth  moan ! 

It  stirs  some  chord  of  memory 
In  each  dull,  heavy  tone ; 

The  voices  of  the  much-loved  dead 
Seem  floating  thereupon, — 

All,  all  my  fond  heart  cherished 
Ere  death  had  made  it  lone. 

Mournfully ! 0,  mournfully 
This  midnight  wind  doth  swell 
With  its  quaint,  pensive  minstrelsy,— 
Hope’s  passionate  farewell 
To  the  dreamy  joys  of  early  years, 

Ere  yet  grief’s  canker  fell 
On  the  heart’s  bloom, — ay ! well  may  tears 
Start  at  that  parting  knell ! 

William  Motherwell. 


WINTER. 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.  The  owlet’s  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark  again ! loud  as  before. 
The  inmates' of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest, 

Have  left  me  to  that  solitude  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings : save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 

’Tis  calm  indeed!  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.  Sea,  hill,  and  wood, 
This  populous  village ! — sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life 
Inaudible  as  dreams ! the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  Nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  with  me  who  live, 
Making  it  a companionable  form, 

Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  Spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 

And  makes  a toy  of  thought. 

But  O ! how  oft, 

How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind, 
Presageful,  have  I gazed  upon  the  bars 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger!  and  as  oft, 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birthplace,  and  the  old  church- 
tower, 

Whose  bells,  the  poor  man’s  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  Fair-day, 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me 
With  a wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come ! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I dreamt 
Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my 
dreams ! 

And  so  I brooded  all  the  following  morn, 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor’s  face,  mine  eye 
Fixed  with  mocked  study  on  my  swimming 
book — 

Save  if  the  door  half  opened,  and  I snatched 
A hasty  glance ; and  still  my  heart  leaped  up, 
For  still  I hoped  to  see  the  stranger’s  face, 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  playmate  when  we  both  were  clothed 
alike ! 


m 

Dear  babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side, 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep 
calm, 

Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentary  pauses  of  the  thought ! 

My  babe  so  beautiful ! it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee, 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore 
And  in  far  other  scenes!  For  I was  reared 
In  the  great  city,  pent  ’mid  cloisters  dim, 
And  saw  nought  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe ! shalt  wander  like  a breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountains,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and 
shores 

And  mountain  crags.  So  shalt  thou  see  and 
hear 

The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  himself. 
Great  universal  Teacher ! he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee : 
Whether  the  Summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw ; whether  the  eve- 
drops  fall, 

Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 

Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 

Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 

BLOW,  BLOW,  THOU  WINTER  WIND. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind — 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man’s  ingratitude ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 

Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green 
holly : 

Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere 
folly; 


8 


114 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


Then,  heigh  ho ! the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thon  bitter  sky — 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot ; 

Thongh  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 

Heigh  ho!  sing  heigh  ho!  unto  the  green 
holly: 

Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere 
folly; 

Then,  heigh  ho ! the  holly ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly ! 

Shakespeare. 


THE  HOLLY  TREE. 

0 eeadee  ! hast  thou  ever  stood  to  see 

The  holly  tree? 

The  eye  that  contemplates  it  well,  perceives 
Its  glossy  leaves 

Ordered  by  an  intelligence  so  wise 
As  might  confound  the  atheist’s  sophistries. 

Below,  a circling  fence,  its  leaves  are  seen 
"Wrinkled  and  keen; 

Ho  grazing  cattle,  through  their  prickly  round, 
Can  reach  to  wound ; 

But  as  they  grow  where  nothing  is  to  fear, 
Smooth  and  unarmed  the  pointless  leaves 
appear. 

1 love  to  view  these  things  with  curious  eyes, 

And  moralise ; 

And  in  this  wisdom  of  the  holly  tree 
Can  emblems  see 

Wherewith,  perchance,  to  make  a pleasant 
rhyme, 

One  which  may  profit  in  the  after-time. 

Thus,  though  abroad,  perchance,  I might 
appear 

Harsh  and  austere — 

To  those  who  on  my  leisure  would  intrude, 
Reserved  and  rude ; 

Gentle  at  home  amid  my  friends  I’d  be, 

Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly  tree. 


And  should  my  youth,  as  youth  is  apt,  I know 
Some  harshness  show, 

J All  vain  asperities,  I,  day  by  day, 

Would  wear  away, 

Till  the  smooth  temper  of  my  age  should  be 
Like  the  high  leaves  upon  the  holly  tree. 


And  as,  when  all  the  summer  trees  are  seen 
So  bright  and  green, 

The  holly  leaves  their  fadeless  hues  display 
Less  bright  than  they ; 

But  when  the  bare  and  wintry  woods  we  see, 
What  then  so  cheerful  as  the  holly  tree? 


So,  serious  should  my  youth  appear  among 
The  thoughtless  throng ; 

So  would  I seem,  amid  the  young  and  gay, 
More  grave  than  they ; 

That  in  my  age  as  cheerful  I might  be 
' As  the  green  winter  of  the  holly  tree. 

Robebt  Southey. 


TO  A PINE  TREE. 

j Fae  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 

Purple-blue  with  the  distance,  and  vast ; 

! Like  a cloud  o’er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a lull  in  the  blast, 

To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

| In  the  storm,  like  a prophet  o’ermaddened. 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches ; 

; Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened ; 

Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches 
When  whole  mountains  swoop  valeward. 

! In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring. 
Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 

To  the  lumberer  asleep  ’neath  thy  glooming 
Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion, 
Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  ’mid  their  booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 

Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 


WINTER. 


For  the  Gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 

With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic, 

While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 

Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate. 

The  wild  Storm  makes  his  lair  in  thy  branches, 
And  thence  preys  on  the  continent  under ; 

Like  a lion,  crouched  close  on  his  haunches, 
There  awaiteth  his  leap  the  fierce  thunder, 
Growling  low  with  impatience. 

Spite  of  Winter,  thou  keep’st  thy  green  glory, 
Lusty  father  of  Titans  past  number! 

The  snow-flakes  alone  make  thee  hoary, 
Nestling  close  to  thy  branches  in  slumber, 
And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou  alone  know’st  the  splendor  of  Winter, 
’Mid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed  precipices, 

Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and  splinter, 
And  then  plunge  down  the  muffled  abysses 
In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 

Thou  alone  know’st  the  glory  of  Summer, 
Gazing  down  on  thy  broad  seas  of  forest — 

On  thy  subjects,  that  send  a proud  murmur 
Up  to  thee,  to  their  sachem,  who  towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 

James  Eussell  Lowell. 


WOODS  IN  WINTER. 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 
With  solemn  feet  I tread  the  hill 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O’er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 
Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 
The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 

And  gladden  these  deep  solitudes. 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 

The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  stillness  broke, — 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 


11c 

Where,  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river’s  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater’s  iron  rings 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas ! how  changed  from  the  fair  scene 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 

But  still,  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods ! within  your  crowd ; 

And  gathering  winds,  in  hoarse  accord, 
Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs  and  wintry  winds ! my  ear 
Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 

I hear  it  in  the  opening  year,— 

I listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


TO  A WINTER  WIND. 

Loud  wind ! strong  wind ! blowing  from  the 
mountains ; 

Fresh  wind ! free  wind ! sweeping  o’er  the 
sea, 

Pour  forth  thy  vials  like  torrents  from  air- 
fountains, 

Draughts  of  life  to  me ! 

Clear  wind ! cold  wind ! like  a northern  giant, 

Stars  brightly  threading  all  thy  cloud-driven 
hair, 

Thrilling  the  blank  night  with  a voice  de- 
fiant— 

I will  meet  thee  there ! 

Wild  wind!  bold  wind!  like  a strong-armed 
angel 

Clasp  me  round ! — kiss  me  with  thy  kisses 
divine ! 

Breathe  in  my  dulled  heart  thy  secret,  sweet 
evangel, — 

Mine,  and  only  mine ! 

Fierce  wind ! mad  wind ! howling  through 
the  nations ! 

Knew’st  thou  leapeth  that  heart  as  thou 
sweep  ’st  by 


116  POEMS  OF 

NATURE. 

Ah!  thou  would’st  pause  awhile  in  gentle 

Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 

patience, 

To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 

Like  a human  sigh ! 

Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind’s  night- work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

Sharp  wind ! keen  wind ! piercing  as  word- 
arrows, 

Empty  thy  quiver-full ! Pass  on!  what  is’t 

Balph  "Waldo  Emeesox. 

to  thee, 

Though  in  some  burning  eyes  life’s  whole 

bright  circle  narrows 

WINTER  SONG. 

To  one  misery  ? 

Summer  joys  are  o ’er ; 

Loud  wind!  strong  wind!  stav  thou  in  the 

Flowerets  bloom  no  more , 

mountains ; 

Wintry  winds  are  sweeping  ; 

Fresh  wind!  free  wind ! trouble  not  the  seal 

Through  the  snow-drifts,  peeping. 

Or  lay  thy  freezing  hand  upon  my  heart's 

« Cheerful  evergreen 

wild  fountains 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

That  I hear  not  thee ! 

Axoimious. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 
Charms  the  wood  with  song ; 
Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering ; 
Merry  snow-birds,  twittering, 

THE  SHOW-STORM. 

Fondly  strive  to  cheer 
Scenes  so  cold  and  drear. 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 

Winter,  still  I see 

Arrives  the  snow ; and,  driving  o’er  the  fields, 

Many  charms  in  thee — 

Seems  nowhere  to  alight ; the  whited  air 

Love  thy  chilly  greeting, 

Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the 

Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 

heaven, 

And  the  dear  delights 

And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden’s  end. 

Of  the  long,  long  nights. 

The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier’s 

Ludwig  Holty,  (German.) 

feet 

Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates 
sit 

Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 

Translation  of  C.  T.  Bbooks. 

In  a tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 
Come  see  the  north  wind’s  masonry. 

SONNET 

Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 

TO  A BLED  THAT  HAUNTED  THE  WATEBS  OF 

Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 

LAAKEN  IN  THE  WINTER. 

Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 

0 melancholy  bird,  a winter’s  day 

Round  every  windward  stake,  or  tree,  or  door ; 

Thou  standest  by  the  margin  of  the  pool, 

Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 

And,  taught  by  God,  dost  thy  whole  being 

So  fanciful,  so  savage ; nought  cares  he 

school 

For  number  or  proportion.  Mockingly, 

To  patience,  which  all  evil  can  allay. 

On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths ; 

God  has  appointed  thee  the  fish  thy  prey, 

A swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn ; 

And  given  thyself  a lesson  to  the  fool 

Fills  up  the  farmer’s  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 

Unthrifty,  to  submit  to  moral  rule, 

Maugre  the  farmer’s  sighs ; and  at  the  gate 

And  his  unthinking  course  by  thee  to  weigh. 

A tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 

There  need  not  schools  nor  the  professor’s 

And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the 

chair, 

world 

Though  these  be  good,  true  wisdom  to  impart : 

Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 

He  who  has  not  enough  for  these  to  spare, 

WINTER. 


Of  time  or  gold,  may  yet  amend  his  heart, 
And  teach  his  soul  by  brooks  and  rivers 
fair— 

Nature  is  always  wise  in  every  part. 

Lord  Thurlow. 


TO  THE  REDBREAST. 

Sweet  bird!  that  sing’st  away  the  early 
hours 

Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of  care. 

Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are, 

Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling 
flowers — 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy 
bowers 

Thou  thy  Creator’s  goodness  dost  declare, 

And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 

A stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick  which  by  thy  songs 

(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 

Quite  to  forget  earth’s  turmoils,  spites,  and 
wrongs, 

And  lift  a reverend  eye  and  thought  to 
Heaven ! 

Sweet,  artless  songster ! thou  my  mind  dost 
raise 

To  airs  of  spheres — yes,  and  to  angels’  lays. 

William  Drummond. 


AFTERNOON  IN  FEBRUARY. 

TnE  day  is  ending 
The  night  is  descending ; 

The  marsh  is  frozen, 

The  river  dead. 

Through  clouds  like  ashes 
The  red  sun  flashes 
On  village  windows 
That  glimmer  red. 

The  snow  recommences ; 

The  buried  fences 
Mark  no  longer 
The  road  o ’er  the  plain ; 


While  through  the  meadows, 

Like  fearful  shadows, 

Slowly  passes 
A funeral  train. 

The  bell  is  pealing, 

And  every  feeling 
Within  me  responds 
To  the  dismal  knell ; 

Shadows  are  trailing, 

My  heart  is  bewailing 
And  tolling  within 
Like  a funeral  bell. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


A SONG  FOR  THE  SEASONS. 

When  the  merry  lark  doth  gild 
With  his  song  the  summer  hours. 

And  their  nests  the  swallows  build 
In  the  roofs  and  tops  of  towers, 

And  the  golden  broom-flower  burns 
All  about  the  waste, 

And  the  maiden  May  returns 
With  a pretty  haste, — 

Then , how  merry  are  the  times  ! 

The  Summer  times  ! the  Spring  times 

Now,  from  off  the  ashy  stone 

The  chilly  midnight  cricket  crieth, 

And  all  merry  birds  are  flown, 

And  our  dream  of  pleasure  dieth ; 

Now  the  once  blue,  laughing  sky 
Saddens  into  gray, 

And  the  frozen  rivers  sigh, 

Pining  all  away ! 

Now,  how  solemn  are  the  times ! 

The  Winter  times  f the  Night  times  ! 

Yet,  be  merry : all  around 
Is  through  one  vast  change  revolving: 
Even  Night,  who  lately  frowned, 

Is  in  paler  dawn  dissolving. 

Earth  will  burst  her  fetters  strange, 

And  in  Spring  grow  free ; 

All  things  in  the  world  will  change, 

Save — my  love  for  thee ! 

Sing  then , hopeful  are  all  times  ! 

Winter,  Summer,  Spring  times  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


118 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  YEAR. 

Obphax  Hours,  the  Year  is  dead, 

Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep ! 
Merry  Hours,  smile  instead, 

For  the  Year  is  but  asleep : 

See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 

Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a corse 
In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 

So  white  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 
Rocks  the  dead-cold  Year  to-day ; 
Solemn  Hours ! wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a child, 

So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 
Rocks  the  Year.  Be  calm  and  mild, 
Trembling  Hours ; she  will  arise 
With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a sexton  by  her  grave ; 

February  bears  the  bier; 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave, 
And  April  weeps — but,  O ye  Hours ! 
Follow  with  May’s  fairest  flowers. 

Pebcy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


THE  SKATERS’  SONG. 

This  bleak  and  frosty  morning, 
All  thoughts  of  danger  scorning, 
Our  spirits  brightly  flow ; 

We  ’re  all  in  a glow, 

Through  the  sparkling  snow 
While  a-skating  we  go  : 

With  a fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la, 
To  the  sound  of  the  merry  ham. 

Great  Jove  looks  on  us  smiling, 
Who  thus  the  time  beguiling, 
Through  the  waters  we  sail ; 

Still  we  row  on  our  keel ; 

Our  weapons  are  steel, 

And  no  danger  we  feel : 

With  a fa,  la,  la,  la. \,  la,  la,  la, 
To  the  sound  of  the  merry  horn. 


From  right  to  left  we  ’re  plying ; 
Swifter  than  winds  we  ’re  flying — 
Spheres  on  spheres  surrounding, 
Health  and  strength  abounding. 

In  circles  we  sleep ; 

Our  poise  still  we  keep  ; 

Behold  how  we  sweep 
The  face  of  the  deep  : 

With  a fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la, 

To  the  sound  of  the  merry  horn. 

See!  see  our  train  advances! 

See  how  each  skater  lances ! 

Health  and  strength  abounding, 

While  horns  and  oboes  sounding ; 

The  Tritons  shall  blow 
Their  conch-shells  below, 

And  their  beards  fear  to  show, 

While  a-skating  we  go : 

With  a fa,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la, 

To  the  sound  of  the  merry  horn. 

AKoimiovs. 


INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  OBJECTS 

IX  CALLING  FOETH  AND  STBEXGTHENING  THE 
IMAGINATION  IN  BOYHOOD  AND  YOUTH. 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe ! 

Thou  Soul,  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought ! 
And  giv’st  to  forms  and  images  a breath 
And  everlasting  motion ! not  in  vain, 

By  day  or  star-light,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul — 
Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  Man, 
But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 
With  Life  and  Nature ; purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 

And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 
Both  pain  and  fear, — until  we  recognize 
A grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With  stinted  kindness.  In  November  days, 
When  vapors  rolling  down  the  valleys  made 
A lonely  scene  more  lonesome ; among  woods 
At  noon  ; and  ’mid  the  calm  of  summer 
nights, 

When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  homeward  I went 


HYMN  IN  THE  YALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 


119 


In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine. 

Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night, 
And  by  the  waters,  all  the  Summer  long; 
And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a mile, 

The  cottage  windows  through  the  twilight 
blazed, 

I heeded  not  the  summons.  Happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us ; for  me 
It  was  a time  of  rapture ! Clear  and  loud 
The  village-clock  tolled  six ; I wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.  All  shod  with 
steel, 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 
Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding 
horn, 

The  pack  loud-chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 
So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 
And  not  a voice  was  idle.  With  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud ; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron  ; while  far-distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed ; while  the  stars, 
Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the 
west 

The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I retired 
Into  a silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous 
throng, 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a star — 

Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain.  And  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spin- 
ning still 

The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels, 
Stopped  short ; yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me, — even  as  if  the  Earth  had 
rolled 

With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler ; and  I stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a summer  sea. 

William  Wordsworth. 


HYMN 

BEFORE  SUNRISE,  IN  THE  VALE  OF  CHAMOUNI. 

Hast  thou  a charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course?  So  long  he  seems  tc 
pause 

On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  0 sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly ; but  thou,  most  awful  Form 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently ! Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black — 
An  ebon  mass.  Methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a wedge ! But  when  I look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal 
shrine, 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

0 dread  and  silent  Mount ! I gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought.  Entranced  in 

prayer 

1 worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 

So  sweet  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with 
my  thought — 

Yea,  with  my  life  and  life’s  own  secret  joy — 
Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to 
Heaven ! 

Awake,  my  soul ! not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest ! not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy ! Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song!  Awake,  my  heart, 
awake ! 

Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 
Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the 
vale ! 

O struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 

Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they 
sink — 

Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth’s  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald — wake,  O wake,  and  utter  praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 


120 


POEMS  OF  NATURE. 


And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely 
glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter 
death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever  ? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and 
your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls ! ye  that  from  the  mountain’s 
brow 

Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 

Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a mighty 
voice, 

And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest 
plunge ! 

Motionless  torrents ! silent  cataracts ! 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of 
Heaven 

Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ? Who  bade 
the  sun 

Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ? Who,  with  liv- 
ing flowers 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your 
feet? 

God ! — let  the  torrents,  like  a shout  of  na- 
tions, 

Answer ! and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God ! 

God ! sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  glad- 
some voice ! 


Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like 
sounds ! 

And  they  too  have  a voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal 
frost ! 

Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle’s 
nest! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the 
clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements ! 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with 
praise  l 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount ! with  thy  sky- 
pointing peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the 
pure  serene, 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy 
breast — 

Thou  too  again,  stupendous  Mountain ! thou 
That  as  I raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with 
tears, 

Solemnly  seemest,  like  a vapoury  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O ever  rise  ! 

Rise  like  a cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth ! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  Hierarch ! tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God, 
Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


PART  II 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD 


Piping  down  the  valleys  wild, 

Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee, 

On  a cloud  I saw  a child, 

And  he,  laughing,  said  to  me  : 

“ Pipe  a song  about  a lamb.” 

So  I piped  with  merry  cheer. 

“ Piper,  pipe  that  song  again.” 

So  I piped ; he  wept  to  hear. 

“Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe, 

Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer.” 

So  I sung  the  same  again, 

While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

“ Piper,  sit  thee  down  and  write, 

In  a book,  that  all  may  read.” — 

So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 

And  I plucked  a hollow  reed  ; 

And  I made  a rural  pen  ; 

And  I stained  the  water  clear 

And  I wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

William  Blaks 


' 


. 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD 


BABY  MAY. 

Cheeks  as  soft  as  July  peaches ; 

Lips  whose  dewy  scarlet  teaches 
Poppies  paleness ; round  large  eyes 
Ever  great  with  new  surprise ; 

Minutes  filled  with  shadeless  gladness ; 
Minutes  just  as  brimmed  with  sadness; 
Happy  smiles  and  wailing  cries ; 

Crows  and  laughs  and  tearful  eyes ; 
Lights  and  shadows,  swifter  born 
Than  on  wind-swept  autumn  corn ; 
Ever  some  new  tiny  notion, 

Making  every  limb  all  motion ; 
Catchings  up  of  legs  and  arms  ; 
Throwings  hack  and  small  alarms ; 
Clutching  fingers ; straightening  jerks  ; 
Twining  feet  whose  each  toe  works ; 
Kickings  up  and  straining  risings ; 
Mother’s  ever  new  surprisings ; 

Hands  all  wants  and  looks  all  wonder 
At  all  things  the  heavens  under ; 

Tiny  scorns  of  smiled  reprovings 
That  have  more  of  love  than  lovings ; 
Mischiefs  done  with  such  a winning 
Archness  that  we  prize  such  sinning; 
Breakings  dire  of  plates  and  glasses ; 

G raspings  small  at  all  that  passes ; 

Pullings  off  of  all  that ’s  able 

To  be  caught  from  tray  or  table ; 

Silences — small  meditations 

Deep  as  thoughts  of  cares  for  nations  • 

Breaking  into  wisest  speeches 

In  a tongue  that  nothing  teaches ; 

All  the  thoughts  of  whose  possessing 
Must  be  wooed  to  light  by  pressing ; 


Slumbers — such  sweet  angel-seemings 
That  we ’d  ever  have  such  dreamings ; 
Till  from  sleep  we  see  thee  breaking, 
And  we ’d  always  have  thee  waking ; 
Wealth  for  which  we  know  no  measure ; 
Pleasure  high  above  all  pleasure  ; 
Gladness  brimming  over  gladness ; 

Joy  in  care ; delight  in  sadness ; 
Loveliness  beyond  completeness ; 
Sweetness  distancing  all  sweetness ; 
Beauty  all  that  beauty  may  be ; — 

That ’s  May  Bennett ; that ’s  my  baby. 

William  C.  Bennett. 


LULLABY. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 

Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea ! 

Over  the  rolling  waters  go ; 

Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 

While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one, 
sleeps. 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest ; 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon. 

Rest,  rest  on  mother’s  breast ; 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon. 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nest; 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west 
Under  the  silver  moon ; 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep,  my  pretty  one,  sleep. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


124 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


CHOOSING  A NAME. 

I have  got  a new-born  sister ; 

I was  nigh  the  first  that  kissed  her. 
When  the  nursing-woman  brought  her 
To  papa,  his  infant  daughter, 

How  papa’s  dear  eyes  did  glisten ! — 

She  will  shortly  be  to  christen ; 

And  papa  has  made  the  offer, 

I shall  have  the  naming  of  her. 

Now  I wonder  what  would  please  her — 
Charlotte,  Julia,  or  Louisa? 

Ann  and  Mary,  th^y  ’re  too  common ; 
Joan ’s  too  formal  for  a woman ; 

Jane ’s  a prettier  name  beside ; 

But  we  had  a Jane  that  died. 

They  would  say,  if ’t  was  Rebecca, 

That  she  was  a little  Quaker. 

Edith ’s  pretty,  but  that  looks 
Better  in  old  English  books.; 

Ellen ’s  left  off  long  ago ; 

Blanche  is  out  of  fashion  now. 

None  that  I have  named  as  yet 
Are  so  good  as  Margaret. 

Emily  is  neat  and  fine ; 

What  do  you  think  of  Caroline  ? 

How  I ’m  puzzled  and  perplexed 
What  to  choose  or  think  of  next ! 

I am  in  a little  fever 

Lest  the  name  that  I should  give  her 

Should  disgrace  her  or  defame  her ; — 

I will  leave  papa  to  name  her. 

Maby  Lamb. 


THE  CHRISTENING. 

Aerated — a half-angelic  sight — 

In  vests  of  pure  baptismal  white, 

The  mother  to  the  Font  doth  bring 
The  little  helpless,  nameless  thing 
With  hushes  soft  and  mild  caressing, 

At  once  to  get — a name  and  blessing. 
Close  by  the  babe  the  priest  doth  stand, 
The  cleansing  water  at  his  hand 
Which  must  assoil  the  soul  within 
From  every  stain  of  Adam’s  sin. 

The  infant  eyes  the  mystic  scenes, 

Nor  knows  what  all  this  wonder  means ; 


And  now  he  smiles,  as  if  to  say, 

“ I am  a Christian  made  this  day ; ” 

Now  frighted  clings  to  nurse’s  hold, 
Shrinking  from  the  water  cold, 

Whose  virtues,  rightly  understood, 

Are,  as  Bethesda’s  waters,  good. 

Strange  words— The  World,  The  Flesh,  The 
Devil — 

Poor  babe,  what  can  it  know  of  evil  ? 

But  we  must  silently  adore 
Mysterious  truths,  and  not  explore. 

Enough  for  him,  in  after  times, 

When  he  shall  read  these  artless  rhymes, 

If,  looking  back  upon  this  day 
With  quiet  conscience,  he  can  say 
“ I have  in  part  redeemed  the  pledge 
Of  my  baptismal  privilege  ; 

And  more  and  more  will  strive  to  flee 
All  which  my  sponsors  kind  did  then  re- 
nounce for  me.” 

Charles  Lamb. 


TO  FERDINAND  SEYMOUR. 

Rosy  child,  with  forehead  fair, 

Coral  lip,  and  shining  hair, 

In  whose  mirthful,  clever  eyes 
Such  a world  of  gladness  lies ; 

As  thy  loose  curls  idly  straying 
O’er  thy  mother’s  cheek,  while  playing, 
Blend  her  soft  lock’s  shadowy  twine 
With  the  glittering  light  of  thine, — 
Who  shall  say,  who  gazes  now, 

Which  is  fairest,  she  or  thou  ? 

In  sweet  contrast  are  ye  met, 

Such  as  heart  could  ne’er  forget : 

Thou  art  brilliant  as  a flower, 
Crimsoning  in  the  sunny  hour ; 

Merry  as  a singing-bird, 

In  the  green  wood  sweetly  heard ; 
Restless  as  if  fluttering  wings 
Bore  thee  on  thy  wanderings ; 

Ignorant  of  all  distress, 

Full  of  childhood’s  carelessness. 

She  is  gentle ; she  hath  known 
Something  of  the  echoed  tone 
Sorrow  leaves,  where’er  it  goes, 

In  this  world  of  many  woes. 


BABYHOOD. 


On  her  brow  such  shadows  are 
As  the  faint  cloud  gives  the  star, 
Veiling  its  most  holy  light, 

Though  it  still  be  pure  and  bright ; 

And  the  colour  in  her  cheek 
To  the  hue  on  thine  is  weak, 

Save  when  flushed  with  sweet  surprise, 
Sudden  welcomes  light  her  eyes ; 

And  her  softly  chiseled  face 
(But  for  living,  moving  grace) 

Looks  like  one  of  those  which  beam 
In  th’  Italian  painter’s  dream, — 

Some  beloved  Madonna,  bending 
O’er  the  infant  she  is  tending ; 

Holy,  bright,  and  undefiled 
Mother  of  the  Heaven-born  child ; 
Who,  tho’  painted  strangely  fair, 

Seems  but  made  for  holy  prayer, 

Pity,  tears,  and  sweet  appeal, 

And  fondness  such  as  angels  feel ; 
Baffling  earthly  passion’s  sigh 
With  serenest  majesty ! 

Oh ! may  those  enshrouded  years 
Whose  fair  dawn  alone  appears, — 

May  that  brightly  budding  life, 
Knowing  yet  nor  sin  nor  strife, — 

Bring  its  store  of  hoped-for  joy, 

Mother,  to  thy  laughing  boy ! 

And  the  good  thou  dost  impart 
Lie  deep-treasured  in  his  heart, 

That,  when  he  at  length  shall  strive 
In  the  bad  world  where  we  live, 

Thy  sweet  name  may  still  be  blest 
As  one  who  taught  his  soul  true  rest ! 

Caroline  Norton. 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  AN  INFANT 

PLAYING-  NEAR  A PRECIPICE. 

WniLE  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she 
kneels, 

And  the  blue  vales  a thousand  joys  recall, 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals ! 

O fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. — 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare, 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 

Leonidas  of  Alexandria.  (Greek.) 
Translation  of  Samuel  Rooers. 


126 


PHILIP,  MY  KING. 

“ Who  bears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round  and  top  ol 
sovereignty.” 

Look  at  me  with  thy  large  brown  eyes, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

For  round  thee  the  purple  shadow  lies 
Of  babyhood’s  regal  dignities. 

Lay  on  my  neck  thy  tiny  hand 

With  Love’s  invisible  sceptre  laden  ; 

I am  thine  Esther,  to  command 

Till  thou  shalt  find  thy  queen-handmaiden, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

Oh,  the  day  when  thou  goest  a-wooing, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

When  those  beautiful  lips  are  suing, 

And,  some  gentle  heart’s  bars  undoing, 

Thou  dost  enter,  love-crowned,  and  there 
Sittest  all  glorified ! — Rule  kindly, 
Tenderly,  over  thy  kingdom  fair ; 

For  we  that  love,  ah ! we  love  so  blindly, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

I gaze  from  thy  sweet  mouth  up  to  thy  brow, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

Ay,  there  lies  the  spirit,  all  sleeping  now, 
That  may  rise  like  a giant,  and  make  men  bow 
As  to  one  God-throned  amidst  his  peers. 

My  Saul,  than  thy  brethren  higher  and 
fairer, 

Let  me  behold  thee  in  coming  years ! 

Yet  thy  head  needeth  a circlet  rarer, 
Philip,  my  King — 

• 

A wreath,  not  of  gold,  but  palm ! One  day, 
Philip,  my  King ! 

Thou  too  must  tread,  as  we  tread,  a way 
Thorny,  and  bitter,  and  cold,  and  gray ; 
Rebels  within  thee,  and  foes  without 

Will  snatch  at  thy  crown.  But  go  on. 
glorious, 

Martyr,  yet  monarch ! till  angels  shout, 

As  thou  sittest  at  the  feet  of  God  victorious, 
“ Philip,  the  King ! ” 

Anonymous. 


126 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  WATCHER. 

Sleep  on,  baby  on  tbe  floor, 

Tired  of  all  thy  playing — 

Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 
That  yon  dropped  away  in ; 

On  yonr  cnrls1  fair  ronndness  stand 
Golden  lights  serenely ; 

One  cheek,  pushed  out  by  the  hand, 
Folds  the  dimple  inly — 

Little  head  and  little  foot 
Heavy  laid  for  pleasure ; 

Underneath  the  lids  half-shut 
Plants  the  shining  azure ; 
Open-souled  in  noonday  sun, 

So,  you  lie  and  slumber ; 

Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Hothing  can  encumber. 

I,  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 

Shall  I sigh  to  view  you  ? 

Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 
All  that  may  undo  you  ? 
nay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  fate  appeareth  ! 

I smile,  too ; for  patience  mild 
Pleasure’s  token  weareth. 
nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss ; 

I shall  sleep,  though  losing ! 

As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross, 

Sweet  is  the  reposing. 

And  God  knows,  who  sees  us  twain, 
Child  at  childish  leisure, 

I am  all  as  tired  of  pain  • 

As  you  are  of  pleasure. 

Very  soon,  too,  by  His  grace 
Gently  wrapt  around  me, 

I shall  show  as  calm  a face, 

I shaU  sleep  as  soundly — 

Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings  sleeping, 
While  my  hand  must  drop  the  few 
Given  to  my  keeping — 

Differing  in  this,  that  I, 

Sleeping,  must  be  colder, 

And,  in  waking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder — 


Differing  in  this  beside, 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  ? 

Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 
Your  great  eyes  toward  me  ?) 

That  while  I you  draw  withal 
From  this  slumber  solely, 

Me,  from  mine,  an  angel  shall, 
Trumpet-tongued  and  holy ! 

Elizabeth  Baebett  Bbowkisg. 


THE  ANGEL’S  WHISPER. 

A superstition  of  great  beauty  prevails  in  Ireland,  that, 
when  a child  smiles  in  its  sleep,  it  is  “talking  with 
angels.” 

A baby  was  sleeping ; 

Its  mother  was  weeping ; 

For  her  husband  was  far  on  the  wild  raging 
sea; 

And  the  tempest  was  swelling 
Round  the  fisherman’s  dwelling ; 

And  she  cried,  “Dermot,  darling,  oh  come 
back  to  me ! ” 

Her  beads  while  she  numbered, 

The  baby  still  slumbered, 

And  smiled  in  her  face  as  she  bended  her 
knee : 

“ O blest  be  that  warning, 

My  child,  thy  sleep  adorning, 

For  I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
with  thee.” 

“ And  while  they  are  keeping 
Bright  watch  o’er  thy  sleeping, 
pray  to  them  softly,  my  baby,  with  me ! 
And  say  thou  wouldst  rather 
They ’d  watch  o’er  thy  father ! 

I know  that  the  angels  are  whispering 
to  thee.” 

The  dawn  of  the  morning 
Saw  Dermot  returning, 

And  the  wife  wept  with  joy  her  babe’s  father 
to  see ; 

And  closely  caressing 
Her  child  with  a blessing, 

Said,  “I  knew  that  the  angels  were  whis- 
pering with  thee.” 

Samvel  Lover. 


Oh, 

For 


THE  TOWN  CHILD  AND  COUNTRY  CHILD. 


121 


THE  CHILD  ASLEEP. 

Sweet  babe ! true  portrait  of  thy  father’s 
face, 

Sleep  on  the  bosom  that  thy  lips  have 
pressed ! 

Sleep,  little  one  ; and  closely,  gently  place 
Thy  drowsy  eyelid  on  thy  mother’s  breast. 

Upon  that  tender  eye,  my  little  friend, 

Soft  sleep  shall  come,  that  cometh  not  to 
me ! 

I watch  to  see  thee,  nourish  thee,  defend ; 

’T  is  sweet  to  watch  for  thee — alone  for 
thee ! 

His  arms  fall  down ; sleep  sits  upon  his  brow ; 
His  eye  is  closed ; he  sleeps,  nor  dreams 
of  harm. 

Wore  not  his  cheek  the  apple’s  ruddy  glow, 
Would  you  not  say  he  slept  on  Death’s 
cold  arm  ? 

Awake,  my  boy ! — I tremble  with  affright ! 
Awake,  and  chase  this  fatal  thought! — 
Unclose 

Thine  eye  but  for  one  moment  on  the  light ! 
Even  at  the  price  of  thine,  give  me  repose ! 

Sweet  error ! — he  but  slept — I breathe  again. 
Come,  gentle  dreams,  the  hour  of  sleep 
beguile ! 

O ! when  shall  he,  for  whom  I sigh  in  vain, 
Beside  me  watch  to  see  thy  waking  smile  ? 

Clotilde  de  Sueyille.  (French.) 

Translation  of  II.  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Enoinctured  in  a twine  of  leaves — 

That  leafy  twine  his  only  dress — 

A lovely  boy  was  plucking  fruits 
In  a moonlight  wilderness. 

The  moon  was  bright,  the  air  was  free, 
And  fruits  and  flowers  together  grew, 
And  many  a shrub,  and  many  a tree  : 
And  all  put  on  a gentle  hue, 


Hanging  in  the  shadowy  air 
Like  a picture  rich  and  rare. 

It  was  a climate  where  they  say 
The  night  is  more  beloved  than  day. 

But  who  that  beauteous  boy  beguiled — 
That  beauteous  boy ! — to  linger  here  ? 
Alone  by  night,  a little  child, 

In  place  so  silent  and  so  wild — 

Has  he  no  friend,  no  loving  mother  near  ? 

Samuel  Tayloe  Coleridge. 


THE  TOWN  CHILD  AND  COUNTRY 
CHILD. 

Child  of  the  Country ! free  as  air 
Art  thou,  and  as  the  sunshine  fair ; 

Born  like  the  lily,  where  the  dew 
Lies  odorous  when  the  day  is  new ; 

Fed  ’mid  the  May-flowers  like  the  bee, 
Nursed  to  sweet  music  on  the  knee, 

Lulled  in  the  breast  to  that  sweet  tune 
Which  winds  make  ’mong  the  woods  of  June 
I sing  of  thee  ; — ’tis  sweet  to  sing 
Of  such  a fair  and  gladsome  thing. 

Child  of  the  Town ! for  thee  I sigh ; 

A gilded  roof ’s  thy  golden  sky, 

A carpet  is  thy  daisied  sod, 

A narrow  street  thy  boundless  wood, 

Thy  rushing  deer ’s  the  clattering  tramp 
Of  watchmen,  thy  best  light ’s  a lamp, — 
Through  smoke,  and  not  through  trellised 
vines 

And  blooming  trees,  thy  sunbeam  shines : 

I sing  of  thee  in  sadness ; where 
Else  is  wreck  wrought  in  aught  so  fair  ? 

Child  of  the  Country ! thy  small  feet 
Tread  on  strawberries  red  and  sweet : 

With  thee  I wander  forth  to  see 

The  flowers  which  most  delight  the  bee ; 

The  bush  o’er  which  the  throstle  sung 
In  April  while  she  nursed  her  young ; 

The  dew  beneath  the  sloe-thorn,  where 
She  bred  her  twins  the  timorous  hare  ; 

The  knoll,  wrought  o’er  with  wild  blue-bells, 
Where  brown  bees  build  their  balmy  cells, 
The  greenwood  stream,  the  shady  pool, 
Where  trouts  leap  when  the  day  is  cool ; 


r 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


128 

The  shilfa’s  nest  that  seems  to  be 
A portion  of  the  sheltering  tree, 

And  other  marvels  which  my  verse 
Can  find  no  language  to  rehearse. 

Child  of  the  Town ! for  thee,  alas ! 

Glad  Nature  spreads  nor  flowers  nor  grass ; 
Birds  build  no  nests,  nor  in  the  sun 
Glad  streams  come  singing  as  they  run : 

% A Maypole  is  thy  blossomed  tree ; 

A beetle  is  thy  murmuring  bee  ; 

Thy  bird  is  caged,  thy  dove  is  where 
The  poulterer  dwells,  beside  the  hare ; 

Thy  fruit  is  plucked,  and  by  the  pound 
Hawked,  clamorous,  o’er  the  city  round  . 

No  roses,  twin-born  on  the  stalk, 

Perfume  thee  in  thy  evening  walk  ; 

No  voice  of  birds, — but  to  thee  comes 
The  mingled  din  of  cars  and  drums, 

* And  startling  cries,  such  as  are  rife 
When  wine  and  wassail  waken  strife. 

Child  of  the  Country ! on  the  lawn 
I see  thee  like  the  bounding  fawn, 

Blithe  as  the  bird  which  tries  its  wing 
The  first  time  on  the  wings  of  Spring ; 
Bright  as  the  sun  when  from  the  cloud 
He  comes  as  cocks  are  crowing  loud ; 

Now  running,  shouting,  ’mid  sunbeams, 
Now  groping  trouts  in  lucid  streams, 

Now  spinning  like  a mill-wheel  round, 

Now  hunting  Echo’s  empty  sound, 

Now  climbing  up  some  old  tall  tree — 

For  climbing’s  sake — ’T  is  sweet  to  thee 
To  sit  where  birds  can  sit  alone, 

Or  share  with  thee  thy  venturous  throne. 

Child  of  the  Town  and  bustling  street, 

WTiat  woes  and  snares  await  thy  feet ! 

Thy  paths  are  paved  for  five  long  miles, 

Thy  groves  and  hills  are  peaks  and  tiles  ; 
Thy  fragrant  air  is  yon  thick  smoke, 

Which  shrouds  thee  like  a mourning  cloak ; 
And  thou  art  cabined  and  confined, 

At  once  from  sun,  and  dew,  and  wind, 

Or  set  thy  tottering  feet  but  on 
Thy  lengthened  walks  of  slippery  stone. 

The  coachman  there  careering  reels, 

With  goaded  steeds  and  maddening  wheels ; 
And  Commerce  pours  each  prosing  son 
In  pelf’s  pursuit  and  halloos  “ Run ! ” 


While  flushed  with  wine,  and  stung  at  play, 
Men  rush  from  darkness  into  day. 

The  stream ’s  too  strong  for  thy  small  bark  ; 
There  nought  can  sail,  save  what  is  stark. 
Fly  from  the  town,  sweet  child ! for  health 
Is  happiness,  and  strength,  and  wealth. 
There  is  a lesson  in  each  flower ; 

A story  in  each  stream  and  bower ; 

On  every  herb  o’er  which  you  tread 
Are  written  words  which,  rightly  read, 

Will  lead  you,  from  earth’s  fragrant  sod, 

To  hope  and  holiness,  and  God. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES. 

That  way  look,  my  infant,  lo ! 

What  a pretty  baby-show  ! 

See  the  kitten  on  the  wall, 

Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall — 
Withered  leaves, — one,  two,  and  three, — 
From  the  lofty  elder-tree ! 

Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air 
Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair, 

Eddying  round  and  round,  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly ; one  might  think, 

From  the  motions  that  are  made, 

Every  little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  fairy  hither  tending, 

To  this  lower  world  descending, 

Each  invisible  and  mute 
In  his  wavering  parachute. 

But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts, 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts ! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow ; 

There  are  many  now, — now  one, — 

Now  they  stop,  and  there  are  none. 

What  intenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire ! 

With  a tiger-leap ! Half-way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey, 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again ; 

Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  conjurer  ; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art, 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 


THE  KITTEN  AND  FALLING  LEAVES. 


129 


Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 
Of  a thousand  standers-by, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare, 
What  would  little  Tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  ? 

Over  happy  to  be  proud, 

Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  exceeding  pleasure ! 

’T  is  a pretty  baby  treat, 

Nor,  I deem,  for  me  unmeet ; 

Here  for  neither  Babe  nor  me 
Other  playmate  can  I see. 

Of  the  countless  living  things 
That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings, 

(In  the  sun  or  under  shade, 

Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade,) 

And  with  busy  revellings, 

Chirp,  and  song,  and  murmurings, 

Made  this  orchard’s  narrow  space, 

And  this  vale,  so  blithe  a place ; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away, 

Never  more  to  breathe  the  day. 

Some  are  sleeping ; some  in  bands 
Travelled  into  distant  lands ; 

Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood, 

Far  from  human  neighborhood ; 

And,  among  the  kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship, 

With  us  openly  abide, 

All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 

Where  is  he,  that  giddy  sprite, 
Blue-cap,  with  his  colors  bright, 

Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be, 

Feeding  in  the  apple-tree — 

Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  rout, 
Turning  blossoms  inside  out — 

Hung,  head  pointing  towards  the  ground, 
Fluttered,  perched,  into  a round 
Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound — 
Lithest,  gaudiest  Harlequin ! 

Prettiest  tumbler  ever  seen ! 

Light  of  heart,  and  light  of  limb — 

What  is  now  become  of  him  ? 

Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains  went 
Frisking,  bleating  merriment, 

When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 

They  are  sobered  by  this  time. 

If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill, 

9 


If  you  listen,  all  is  still, 

Save  a little  neighboring  rill 
That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a solitary  sound. 

Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain, 

And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain ; 

Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 
Of  a sky  serene  and  pure ; 

Creature  none  can  she  decoy 
Into  open  sign  of  joy. 

Is  it  that  they  have  a fear 
Of  the  dreary  season  near  ? 

Or  that  other  pleasures  be 
Sweeter  even  than  gayety  ? 

Yet,  whate’er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 
Furnishes  to  every  creature — 
Whatsoe’er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show — 

Such  a light  of  gladness  breaks, 

Pretty  Kitten ! from  thy  freaks, — 
Spreads  with  such  a living  grace 
O’er  my  little  Dora’s  face — 

Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms, 

That  almost  I could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine, 

That  I do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  pair ! 

And  I will  have  my  careless  season 
Spite  of  melancholy  reason, 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a way 
That,  when  time  brings  on  decay. 

How  and  then  I may  possess 
Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

Pleased  by  any  random  toy — 

By  a kitten’s  busy  joy, 

Or  an  infant’s  laughing  eye 
Sharing  in  the  ecstasy — 

I would  fare  like  that  or  this, 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss, 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake, 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrought, 
Matter  for  a jocund  thought — 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief, 

To  gambol  with  Life’s  falling  leaf. 

William  Wobdswobth. 


130 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  GIPSY’S  MALISON. 

“ Suck,  baby,  suck ! mother’s  love  grows  by 
giving; 

Drain  tbe  sweet  founts  that  only  thrive  by 
wasting : 

Black  manhood  comes,  when  riotous  guilty 
living 

Hands  thee  the  cup  that  shall  be  death  in 
tasting. 

Kiss,  baby,  kiss ! mother’s  lips  shine  by 
kisses ; 

Choke  the  warm  breath  that  else  would  fall 
in  blessings : 

Black  manhood  comes,  when  turbulent  guilty 
blisses 

Tend  thee  the  kiss  that  poisons  ’mid  caress- 
ings. 

Hang,  baby,  hang ! mother’s  love  loves  such 
forces ; 

Strain  the  fond  neck  that  bends  still  to  thy 
clinging : 

Black  manhood  comes,  when  violent  lawless 
courses 

Leave  thee  a spectacle  in  rude  air  swinging.” 

So  sang  a withered  beldam  energetical, 

And  banned  the  ungiving  door  with  lips  pro- 
phetical. 

Charles  Lamb. 


THE  FAIRY  CHILD. 

The  summer  sun  was  sinking 

With  a mild  light,  calm  and  mellow ; 

It  shone  on  my  little  boy’s  bonny  cheeks, 
And  his  loose  locks  of  yellow. 

The  robin  was  singing  sweetly, 

And  his  song  was  sad  and  tender ; 

And  my  little  boy’s  eyes,  while  he  heard  the 
song, 

Smiled  with  a sweet  soft  splendor. 

My  little  boy  lay  on  my  bosom 

While  his  soul  the  song  was  quaffing  ; 

The  joy  of  his  soul  had  tinged  his  cheek, 

And  his  heart  and  his  eye  were  laughing. 


I sate  alone  in  my  cottage, 

The  midnight  needle  plying ; 

I feared  for  my  child,  for  the  rush’s  light 
In  the  socket  now  was  dying ! 

There  came  a hand  to  my  lonely  latch, 

Like  the  wind  at  midnight  moaning ; 

I knelt  to  pray,  but  rose  again, 

For  I heard  my  little  boy  groaning. 

I crossed  my  brow  and  I crossed  my  breast, 
But  that  night  my  child  departed — 

They  left  a weakling  in  his  stead, 

And  I am  broken-hearted ! 

Oh ! it  cannot  be  my  own  sweet  boy, 

For  his  eyes  are  dim  and  hollow ; 

My  little  boy  is  gone — is  gone, 

And  his  mother  soon  will  follow ! 

The  dirge  for  the  dead  will  be  sung  for  me, 
And  the  mass  be  chanted  meetly, 

And  I shall  sleep  with  my  little  boy, 

In  the  moonlight  churchyard  sweetly. 

John  Ansteb. 


TO  A CHILD 

EMBRACING  HIS  MOTHER. 

Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 

Kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  again, — 
Hereafter  she  may  have  a son 
Will  kiss  and  clasp  her  neck  in  vain. 
Love  thy  mother,  little  one ! 

n. 

Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes, 

And  mirror  back  her  love  for  thee, — 
Hereafter  thou  may’st  shudder  sighs 
To  meet  them  when  they  cannot  see. 
Gaze  upon  her  living  eyes ! 

m. 

Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow 
With  love  that  they  have  often  told, — 
Hereafter  thou  may’st  press  in  woe, 
And  kiss  them  till  thine  own  are  cold. 
Press  her  lips  the  while  they  glow ! 


TO  JOHN  HUNT. 


IV. 

Oh,  revere  her  raven  hair ! 

Although  it  be  not  silver-gray — 

Too  early  Death,  led  on  by  Care, 

May  snatch  save  one  dear  lock  away. 

Oh ! revere  her  raven  hair ! 

v. 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn, 

That  Heaven  may  long  the  stroke  defer — 
For  thou  may’st  live  the  hour  forlorn 
When  thou  wilt  ask  to  die  with  her. 

Pray  for  her  at  eve  and  morn ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


TO  J.  H. 

FOUR  TEARS  OLD: — A NURSERY  SONG. 

....  Pien  d’  amori, 

Pien  di  canti,  e pien  di  fiori. 

Fkugoni. 

Full  of  little  loves  of  ours, 

Full  of  songs,  and  full  of  flowers. 

Ah,  little  ranting  Johnny, 

For  ever  blithe  and  bonny, 

And  singing  nonny,  nonny, 

With  hat  just  thrown  upon  ye  ; 

Or  whistling  like  the  thrushes, 

With  voice  in  silver  gushes ; 

Or  twisting  random  posies 
With  daisies,  weeds,  and  roses ; 

And  strutting  in  and  out  so, 

Or  dancing  all  about  so  ; 

With  cock-up  nose  so  lightsome, 

And  sidelong  eyes  so  brightsome, 

And  cheeks  as  ripe  as  apples, 

And  head  as  rough  as  Dapple’s, 

And  arms  as  sunny  shining 
As  if  their  veins  they ’d  wine  in, 

And  mouth  that  smiles  so  truly 
Heav’n  seems  to  have  made  it.  newly — 
It  breaks  into  such  sweetness 
With  merry -lipped  completeness ; 

Ah  Jack,  ah  Gianni  mio, 

As  blithe  as  Laughing  Trio ! 

— Sir  Richard,  too,  you  rattler, 

So  christened  from  the  Tatler, 

My  Bacchus  in  his  glory, 

My  little  Cor-di-fiori, 


131 

My  tricksome  Puck,  my  Robin, 

Who  in  and  out  come  bobbing, 

As  full  of  feints  and  frolics  as 
That  fibbing  rogue  Antolycus, 

And  play  the  graceless  robber  on 
Your  grave-eyed  brother  Oberon, — 

Ah  Dick,  ah  Dolce-riso, 

How  can  you,  can  you  be  so  ? 

One  cannot  turn  a minute, 

But  mischief — there  you  ’re  in  it : 
A-getting  at  my  books,  John, 

With  mighty  bustling  looks,  John  ; 

Or  poking  at  the  roses, 

In  midst  of  which  your  nose  is ; 

Or  climbing  on  a table, 

Ho  matter  how  unstable, 

And  turning  up  your  quaint  eye 
And  half-shut  teeth,  with  “ Mayn’t  I ?’ 
Or  else  you  ’re  off  at  play,  John, 

Just  as  you ’d  be  all  day,  John, 

With  hat  or  not,  as  happens ; 

And  there  you  dance,  and  clap  hands, 
Or  on  the  grass  go  rolling, 

Or  plucking  flowers,  or  bowling, 

And  getting  me  expenses 
With  losing  balls  o’er  fences ; 

Or,  as  the  constant  trade  is, 

Are  fondled  by  the  ladies 

With  “ What  a young  rogue  this  is ! ” 

Reforming  him  with  kisses ; 

Till  suddenly  you  cry  out, 

As  if  you  had  an  eye  out, 

So  desperately  tearful, 

The  sound  is  really  fearful ; 

When  lo  ! directly  after, 

It  bubbles  into  laughter. 

Ah  rogue ! and  do  you  know,  John, 
Why ’t  is  we  love  you  so,  John  ? 

And  how  it  is  they  let  ye 
Do  what  you  like  and  pet  ye, 

Though  all  who  look  upon  ye, 

Exclaim  “ Ah,  Johnny,  Johnny  ! ” 

It  is  because  you  please  ’em 

Still  more,  John,  than  you  teaze  ’em ; 

Because,  too,  when  not  present, 

The  thought  of  you  is  pleasant ; 

Because,  though  such  an  elf,  John, 

They  think  that  if  yourself,  John, 


132 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


Had  something  to  condemn  too, 

You ’d  be  as  kind  to  them  too  ; 

In  short,  because  you  ’re  very 
Good-tempered,  Jack,  and  merry  ; 

And  are  as  quick  at  giving 
As  easy  at  receiving ; 

And  in  the  midst  of  pleasure 
Are  certain  to  find  leisure 
To  think,  my  hoy,  of  ours, 

And  bring  us  lumps  of  flowers. 

But  see,  the  sun  shines  brightly ; 
Come,  put  your  hat  on  rightly, 

And  we  ’ll  among  the  bushes, 

And  hear  your  friends,  the  thrushes ; 
And  see  what  flowers  the  weather 
Has  rendered  fit  to  gather ; 

And,  when  we  home  must  jog,  you 
Shall  ride  my  back,  you  rogue  you, — 
Your  hat  adorned  with  fine  leaves, 
Horse-chestnut,  oak,  and  vine-leaves ; 
And  so,  with  green  o’erhead,  John, 
Shall  whistle  home  to  bed,  John. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


TO  H.  C. 

SIX  TEAKS  OLD. 

O thou,  whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought; 
Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a mock  apparel, 
And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 
The  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self-born 
carol ; 

Thou  fairy  voyager ! that  dost  float 
In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  boat 
May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream — 
Suspended  in  a stream  as  clear  as  sky, 

Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one 
imagery ; 

0 blessed  vision ! happy  child ! 

Thou  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1 think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

I thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy 
guest, 

Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  ; 

And  Grief,  uneasy  lover ! never  rest 
But  when  she  sat  within  the  touch  of  thee. 


O too  industrious  folly ! 

O vain  and  causeless  melancholy ! 

Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite  ; 

Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 
Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 

A young  lamb’s  heart  among  the  full-grown 
flocks. 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  sorrow, 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  ? 

Thou  art  a dew-drop,  which  the  morn  brings 
forth, 

111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks, 

Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth ; 

A gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives, 

And  no  forewarning  gives, 

But,  at  the  touch  of  wrongs,  without  a strife 
Slips  in  a moment  out  of  life. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  A CHILD,  DURING  SICKNESS. 

Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 
My  little,  patient  boy ; 

And  balmy  rest  about  thee 
Smooths  off  the  day’s  annoy. 

I sit  me  down,  and  think 
Of  all  thy  winning  ways  ; 

Yet  almost  wish,  with  sudden  shrink, 
That  I had  less  to  praise. 

Thy  sidelong  pillowed  meekness, 

Thy  thanks  to  all  that  aid, 

Thy  heart,  in  pain  and  weakness, 

Of  fancied  faults  afraid  ; 

The  little  trembling  hand 
That  wipes  thy  quiet  tears : 

These,  these  are  things  that  may  demand 
Dread  memories  for  years. 

Sorrows  I ’ve  had,  severe  ones, 

I will  not  think  of  now  ; 

And  calmly,  midst  my  dear  ones, 

Have  wasted  with  dry  brow ; 

But  when  thy  fingers  press 

And  pat  my  stooping  head, 

I cannot  bear  the  gentleness — 

The  tears  are  in  their  bed. 


TO  A SLEEPING  CHILD. 


133 


Ah,  first-born  of  thy  mother, 

When  life  and  hope  were  new  ; 

Kind  playmate  of  thy  brother, 

Thy  sister,  father  too  ; 

My  light,  where’er  I go ; 

My  bird,  when  prison-hound ; 

My  hand-in-hand  companion — Mo, 

My  prayers  shall  hold  thee  round. 

To  say  “ He  has  departed  ” — 

“His  voice” — “his  face” — is  gone, 

To  feel  impatient-hearted, 

Yet  feel  we  must  hear  on — 

Ah,  I could  not  endure 
To  whisper  of  such  woe, 

Unless  I felt  this  sleep  ensure 
That  it  will  not  be  so. 

Yes,  still  he ’s  fixed,  and  sleeping ! 

This  silence  too  the  while — 

Its  very  hush  and  creeping 
Seem  whispering  us  a smile ; 

Something  divine  and  dim 
Seems  going  by  one’s  ear, 

Like  parting  wings  of  cherubim, 

Who  say,  “ We ’ve  finished  here.” 

Leigh  Hunt. 


CHILDREN. 

Children  are  what  the  mothers  are. 
No  fondest  father’s  fondest  care 
Can  fashion  so  the  infant  heart 
As  those  creative  beams  that  dart, 
With  all  their  hopes  and  fears,  upon 
The  cradle  of  a sleeping  son. 

His  startled  eyes  with  wonder  see 
A father  near  him  on  his  knee, 

Who  wishes  all  the  while  to  trace 
The  mother  in  his  future  face  ; 

But ’t  is  to  her  alone  uprise 

His  wakening  arms ; to  her  those  eyes 

Open  with  joy  and  not  surprise. 

■Walter  Savage  Landor. 


TO  A SLEEPING  CHILD. 

Art  thou  a thing  of  mortal  birth, 

Whose  happy  home  is  on  our  earth  ? 

Does  human  blood  with  life  imbue 
Those  wandering  veins  of  heavenly  blue, 
That  stray  along  that  forehead  fair, 

Lost  mid  a gleam  of  golden  hair  ? 

Oh ! can  that  light  and  airy  breath 
Steal  from  a being  doomed  to  death ; 

Those  features  to  the  grave  he  sent 
In  sleep  thus  mutely  eloquent ; 

Or,  art  thou,  what  thy  form  would  seem, 

A phantom  of  a blessed  dream  ? 

A human  shape  I feel  thou  art — 

I feel  it  at  my  beating  heart, 

Those  tremors  both  of  soul  and  sense 
Awoke  by  infant  innocence ! 

Though  dear  the  forms  by  Fancy  wove, 

We  love  them  with  a transient  love ; 
Thoughts  from  the  living  world  intrude 
Even  on  her  deepest  solitude : 

But,  lovely  child ! thy  magic  stole 
At  once  into  my  inmost  soul, 

With  feelings  as  thy  beauty  fair, 

And  left  no  other  vision  there. 

To  me  thy  parents  are  unknown  ; 

Glad  would  they  he  their  child  to  own ! 
And  well  they  must  have  loved  before, 

If  since  thy  birth  they  loved  not  more. 
Thou  art  a branch  of  noble  stem, 

And,  seeing  thee,  I figure  them. 

What  many  a childless  one  would  give, 

If  thou  in  their  still  home  would’st  live ! 
Though  in  thy  face  no  family  line 
Might  sweetly  say,  “ This  babe  is  mine ! ” 
In  time  thou  would’st  become  the  same 
As  their  own  child, — all  but  the  name. 

How  happy  must  thy  parents  he 
Who  daily  live  in  sight  of  thee ! 

Whose  hearts  no  greater  pleasure  seek 
Than  see  thee  smile,  and  hear  thee  speak, 
And  feel  all  natural  griefs  beguiled 
By  thee,  their  fond,  their  duteous  child. 
What  joy  must  in  their  souls  have  stirred 
When  thy  first  broken  words  were  heard— 
Words,  that,  inspired  by  heaven,  expressed 
The  transports  dancing  in  thy  breast ! 

And  for  thy  smile ! — thy  lip,  cheek,  brow, 
Even  while  I gaze,  are  kindling  now. 


134 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


I caUed  thee  duteous ; am  I wrong  ? 

No ! truth,  I feel,  is  in  my  song : 

Duteous,  thy  heart’s  still  heatings  move 
To  God,  to  nature,  and  to  love ! 

To  God ! — for  thou,  a harmless  child, 

Hast  kept  his  temple  undefiled : 

To  nature ! — for  thy  tears  and  sighs 
Obey  alone  her  mysteries : 

To  love ! — for  fiends  of  hate  might  see 
Thou  dwell’st  in  love,  and  love  in  thee. 
What  wonder  then,  though  in  thy  dreams 
Thy  face  with  mystic  meaning  beams ! 

Oh ! that  my  spirit’s  eye  could  see 
Whence  hurst  those  gleams  of  ecstasy ! 
That  light  of  dreaming  soul  appears 
To  play  from  thoughts  above  thy  years ; 
Thou  smilest  as  if  thy  soul  were  soaring 
To  heaven,  and  heaven’s  God  adoring. 
And  who  can  tell  what  visions  high 
May  bless  an  infant’s  sleeping  eye  ? 

What  brighter  throne  can  brightness  find 
To  reign  on,  than  an  infant’s  mind, 

Ere  sin  destroy,  or  error  dim, 

The  glory  of  the  seraphim  ? 

But  now  thy  changing  smiles  express 
Intelligible  happiness. 

I feel  my  soul  thy  soul  partake. 

What  grief ! if  thou  would’st  now  awake ! 
With  infants  happy  as  thyself 
I see  thee  bound,  a playful  elf ; 

I see  thou  art  a darling  child, 

Among  thy  playmates  bold  and  wild ; 
They  love  thee  well ; thou  art  the  queen 
Of  all  their  sports,  in  bower  or  green ; 
And  if  thou  livest  to  woman’s  height, 

In  thee  will  friendship,  love,  delight. 

And  live  thou  surely  must ; thy  life 
Is  far  too  spiritual  for  the  strife 
Of  mortal  pain  ; nor  could  disease 
Find  heart  to  prey  on  smiles  like  these. 
Oh ! thou  wilt  be  an  angel  bright — 

To  those  thou  lovest,  a saving  light — 

The  staff  of  age,  the  help  sublime 
Of  erring  youth,  and  stubborn  prime  ; 
And  when  thou  goest  to  heaven  again, 
Thy  vanishing  he  like  the  strain 
Of  airy  harp — so  soft  the  tone 
The  ear  scarce  knows  when  it  is  gone ! 

Thrice  blessed  he  whose  stars  design 
His  pure  spirit  to  lean  on  thine, 

And  watchful  share,  for  days  and  years, 


Thy  sorrows,  joys,  sighs,  smiles,  and  tears 
For  good  and  guiltless  as  thou  art, 

Some  transient  griefs  will  touch  thy  heart — 
Griefs  that  along  thy  altered  face 
Will  breathe  a more  subduing  grace 
Than  even  those  looks  of  joy  that  lie 
On  the  soft  cheek  of  infancy. 

Though  looks,  God  knows,  are  cradled  there, 
That  guilt  might  cleanse,  or  soothe  despair. 

Oh ! vision  fair ! that  I could  be 
Again  as  young,  as  pure,  as  thee ! 

Vain  wish ! the  rainbow’s  radiant  form 
May  view,  but  cannot  brave,  the  storm ; 
Years  can  bedim  the  gorgeous  dyes 
That  paint  the  bird  of  Paradise ; 

And  years,  so  Fate  hath  ordered,  roll 
Clouds  o’er  the  summer  of  the  soul. 

Yet,  sometimes,  sudden  sights  of  grace, 

Such  as  the  gladness  of  thy  face, 

O sinless  babe,  by  God  are  given 
To  charm  the  wanderer  hack  to  heaven. 

No  common  impulse  hath  me  led 
To  this  green  spot,  thy  quiet  bed, 

Where,  by  mere  gladness  overcome, 

In  sleep  thou  dreamest  of  thy  home. 

When  to  the  lake  I would  have  gone, 

A wondrous  beauty  drew  me  on — 

Such  beauty  as  the  spirit  sees 
In  glittering  fields  and  moveless  trees, 

After  a warm  and  silent  shower 
Ere  falls  on  earth  the  twilight  hour. 

What  led  me  hither,  all  can  say 
Who,  knowing  God,  his  will  obey. 

Thy  slumbers  now  cannot  be  long ; 

Thy  little  dreams  become  too  strong 
For  sleep — too  like  realities; 

Soon  shall  I see  those  hidden  eyes. 

Thou  wakest,  and  starting  from  the  ground, 
In  dear  amazement  look’st  around ; 

Like  one  who,  little  given  to  roam, 

Wonders  to  find  herself  from  home ! 

But  when  a stranger  meets  thy  view, 
Glistens  thine  eye  with  wilder  hue. 

A moment’s  thought  who  I may  be, 

Blends  with  thy  smiles  of  courtesy. 

Fair  was  that  face  as  break  of  dawn, 

When  o’er  its  beauty  sleep  was  drawn, 

Like  a thin  veil  that  half  concealed 
The  light  of  soul,  and  half  revealed. 

While  thy  hushed  heart  with  visions  wrought 
Each  trembling  eye-lash  moved  with  thought 


THE  SLEEPING  BOY. 


135 


And  things  we  dream,  but  ne’er  can  speak, 
Like  clouds  came  floating  o’er  thy  cheek — 
Such  summer-clouds  as  travel  light, 

When  the  soul’s  heaven  lies  calm  and  bright — 
Till  thou  awokest ; then  to  thine  eye 
Thy  whole  heart  leapt  in  ecstasy ! 

And  lovely  is  that  heart  of  thine, 

Or  sure  those  eyes  could  never  shine 
With  such  a wild,  yet  bashful  glee, 

Gay,  half-o’ercome  timidity ! 

Nature  has  breathed  into  thy  face 
A spirit  of  unconscious  grace — 

A spirit  that  lies  never  still, 

And  makes  thee  joyous  ’gainst  thy  will : 

As,  sometimes  o’er  a sleeping  lake 
Soft  airs  a gentle  rippling  make, 

Till,  ere  we  know,  the  strangers  fly, 

And  water  blends  again  with  sky. 

O happy  sprite ! didst  thou  hut  know 
What  pleasures  through  my  being  flow 
From  thy  soft  eyes ! a holier  feeling 
From  their  blue  light  could  ne’er  be  stealing ; 
But  thou  would’st  he  more  loth  to  part, 

And  give  me  more  of  that  glad  heart. 

Oh ! gone  thou  art ! and  hearest  hence 
The  glory  of  thy  innocence. 

But  with  deep  joy  I breathe  the  air 
That  kissed  thy  cheek,  and  fanned  thy  hair, 
And  feel,  though  fate  our  lives  must  sever, 
Yet  shall  thy  image  live  for  ever ! 

John  Wilson. 


TO  A CHILD. 

Dear  child ! whom  sleep  can  hardly  tame, 
As  live  and  beautiful  as  flame, 

Thou  glancest  round  my  graver  hours 
As  if  thy  crown  of  wild-wood  flowers 
Were  not  by  mortal  forehead  worn, 

But  on  the  summer  breeze  were  borne, 

Or  on  a mountain  streamlet’s  waves 
Came  glistening  down  from  dreamy  caves. 

With  bright  round  cheek,  amid  whose  glow 
Delight  and  wonder  come  and  go ; 

And  eyes  whose  inward  meanings  play, 
Congenial  with  the  light  of  day  ; 

And  brow  so  calm,  a home  for  Thought 
Before  he  knows  his  dwelling  wrought ; 


Though  wise  indeed  thou  seemest  not, 

Thou  brightenest  well  the  wise  man’s  lot. 

That  shout  proclaims  the  undoubting  mind ; 
That  laughter  leaves  no  ache  behind ; 

And  in  thy  look  and  dance  of  glee, 
Unforced,  unthought  of,  simply  free, 

How  weak  the  schoolman’s  formal  art 
Thy  soul  and  body’s  bliss  to  part ! 

I hail  thee  Childhood’s  very  Lord, 

In  gaze  and  glance,  in  voice  and  word. 

In  spite  of  all  foreboding  fear, 

A thing  thou  art  of  present  cheer ; 

And  thus  to  be  beloved  and  known, 

As  is  a rushy  fountain’s  tone, 

As  is  the  forest’s  leafy  shade, 

Or  blackbird’s  hidden  serenade. 

Thou  art  a flash  that  lights  the  whole — 

A gush  from  nature’s  vernal  soul. 

And  yet,  dear  child ! within  thee  lives 
A power  that  deeper  feeling  gives, 

That  makes  thee  more  than  light  or  air, 
Than  all  things  sweet  and  all  things  fair ; 
And  sweet  and  fair  as  aught  may  be, 
Diviner  life  belongs  to  thee, 

For  ’mid  thine  aimless  joys  began 
The  perfect  heart  and  will  of  Man. 

Thus  what  thou  art  foreshows  to  me 
How  greater  far  thou  soon  shalt  be ; 

And  while  amid  thy  garlands  blow 
The  winds  that  warbling  come  and  go, 

Ever  within,  not  loud  but  clear, 

Prophetic  murmur  fills  the  ear, 

And  says  that  every  human  birth 
Anew  discloses  God  to  earth. 

John  Sterling. 


TO  GEORGE  M . 

Yes,  I do  love  thee  well,  my  child ! 
Albeit  mine’s  a wandering  mind ; 

But  never,  darling,  hast  thou  smiled 
Or  breathed  a wish  that  did  not  find 
A ready  echo  in  my  heart. 

What  hours  I ’ve  held  thee  on  my  knee, 
Thy  little  rosy  lips  apart ! 

Or,  when  asleep,  I ’ve  gazed  on  thee 


136 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


And  with  old  tunes  sung  thee  to  rest, 
Hugging  thee  closely  to  my  bosom ; 

For  thee  my  very  heart  hath  blest, 

My  joy,  my  care,  my  blue-eyed  blossom ! 

Thomas  Miller. 


THE  MOTHER’S  HOPE. 

Is  there,  when  the  winds  are  singing 
In  the  happy  summer  time — 

When  the  raptured  air  is  ringing 
With  Earth’s  music  heavenward  springing, 
Forest  chirp,  and  village  chime — 

Is  there,  of  the  sounds  that  float 
Unsighingly,  a single  note 
Half  so  sweet,  and  clear,  and  wild. 

As  the  laughter  of  a child  ? 

Listen ! and  be  now  delighted : 

Morn  hath  touched  her  golden  strings ; 
Earth  and  Sky  their  vows  have  plighted ; 
Life  and  Light  are  reunited, 

Amid  countless  carollings ; 

Yet,  delicious  as  they  are, 

There ’s  a sound  that ’s  sweeter  far — 

One  that  makes  the  heart  rejoice 
More  than  all, — the  human  voice ! 

Organ  finer,  deeper,  clearer, 

Though  it  be  a stranger’s  tone — 

Than  the  winds  or  waters  dearer, 

More  enchanting  to  the  hearer, 

For  it  answereth  to  his  own. 

But,  of  all  its  witching  words 
Those  are  sweetest,  bubbling  wild 
Through  the  laughter  of  a child. 

Harmonies  from  time-touched  towers, 
Haunted  strains  from  rivulets, 

Hum  of  bees  among  the  flowers, 

Rustling  leaves,  and  silver  showers, — 
These,  ere  long,  the  ear  forgets ; 

But  in  mine  there  is  a sound 
Ringing  on  the  whole  year  round — 
Heart-deep  laughter  that  I heard 
Ere  my  child  could  speak  a word. 


Ah ! ’t  was  heard  by  ear  far  purer, 
Fondlier  formed  to  catch  the  strain — 
Ear  of  one  whose  love  is  surer — 

Hers,  the  mother,  the  endurer 
Of  the  deepest  share  of  pain ; 

Hers  the  deepest  bliss  to  treasure 
Memories  of  that  cry  of  pleasure ; 

Hers  to  hoard,  a life-time  after, 

Echoes  of  that  infant  laughter. 

’T  is  a mother’s  large  affection 
Hears  with  a mysterious  sense— 
Breathings  that  evade  detection, 

Whisper  faint,  and  fine  inflexion, 

Thrill  in  her  with  power  intense. 
Childhood’s  honied  words  untaught 
Hiveth  she  in  loving  thought — 

Tones  that  never  thence  depart ; 

For  she  listens — with  her  heart. 

Lam  an  Blanchard. 


THE  MOTHER’S  HEART. 

When  first  thou  earnest,  gentle,  shy,  and 
fond, 

My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest 
treasure, 

My  heart  received  thee  with  a joy  beyond 
All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure ; 
Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I felt  for  thee. 

Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy 
years, 

And  natural  piety  that  leaned  to  heaven ; 
Wrung  by  a harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears, 
Yet  patient  to  rebuke  when  justly  given— 
Obedient — easy  to  be  reconciled — 

And  meekly  cheerful;  such  wert  thou,  my 
child! 

Hot  willing  to  be  left — still  by  my  side, 
Haunting  my  walks,  while  summer-day 
was  dying ; 

Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn,  but  pleased  to  glide 
Through  the  dark  room  where  I was  sadly 

lying; 


MOTHER’S  LOVE. 


137 


Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a sitter  meek, 

Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  fevered 
cheek. 

O hoy ! of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth’s  fragile  idols ; like  a tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness,  prone  to 
fade, 

And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder- 
shower ; 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force 
to  bind, 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the 
wind! 

Then  thou,  my  merry  love — bold  in  thy  glee, 
Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  danc- 
ing, 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free — 
Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a bird’s  wing 
glancing, 

Full  of  a wild  and  irrepressible  mirth, 

Like  a young  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened  earth ! 

Thine  was  the  shout,  the  song,  the  burst  of 
jo  7, 

Which  sweet  from  childhood’s  rosy  lip  re- 
soundeth ; 

Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy, 
And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief 
reboundeth ; 

And  many  a mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 

Lurked  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye. 

And  thine  was  many  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 
The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness 
warming ; 

The  coaxing  smile — the  frequent  soft  caress — 
The  earnest  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  dis- 
arming ! 

Again  my  heart  a new  affection  found, 

But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reached 
its  bound. 

At  length  thou  earnest — thou,  the  last  and 
least, 

Nick-named  “ The  Emperor  ” by  thy  laugh- 
ing brothers — 

Because  a haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast, 
And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the 
others — 


Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 
A mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 

And  oh ! most  like  a regal  child  wert  thou ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming ! 
Fair  shoulders — curling  lips — and  dauntless 
brow — 

Fit  for  the  world’s  strife,  not  for  poet’s 
dreaming ; 

And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head, 
And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both!  yet  each  succeeding 
claim 

I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 
Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same ; 

Nor  injured  either  by  this  love’s  comparing ; 
Nor  stole  a fraction  for  the  newer  call — 

But  in  the  mother’s  heart  found  room  for  all ! 

Caroline  Norton. 


MOTHER’S  LOYE. 

He  sang  so  wildly,  did  the  boy, 

That  you  could  never  tell 
If ’t  was  a madman’s  voice  you  heard, 
Or  if  the  spirit  of  a bird 
Within  his  heart  did  dwell — 

A bird  that  dallies  with  his  voice 
Among  the  matted  branches ; 

Or  on  the  free  blue  air  his  note, 

To  pierce,  and  fall,  and  rise,  and  float, 
With  bolder  utterance  launches. 

None  ever  was  so  sweet  as  he, 

The  boy  that  wildly  sang  to  me  ; 
Though  toilsome  was  the  way  and  long, 
He  led  me,  not  to  lose  the  song. 

But  when  again  we  stood  below 
The  unhidden  sky,  his  feet 
Grew  slacker,  and  his  note  more  slow, 
But  more  than  doubly  sweet. 

He  led  me  then  a little  way 
Athwart  the  barren  moor, 

And  there  he  stayed,  and  bade  me  stay, 
Beside  a cottage  door ; 

I could  have  stayed  of  mine  own  will, 

In  truth,  my  eye  and  heart  to  fill 
With  the  sweet  sight  which  I saw  there, 
At  the  dwelling  of  the  cottager. 


138 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


A little  in  the  doorway  sitting, 

The  mother  plied  her  busy  knitting ; 
And  her  cheek  so  softly  smiled, 

You  might  he  sure,  although  her  gaze 
Was  on  the  meshes  of  the  lace, 

Yet  her  thoughts  were  with  her  child. 

But  when  the  hoy  had  heard  her  voice, 
As  o’er  her  work  she  did  rejoice, 

His  became  silent  altogether ; 

And  slily  creeping  by  the  wall, 

He  seized  a single  plume,  let  fall 
By  some  wild  bird  of  longest  feather ; 
And  all  a-tremble  with  his  freak, 

He  touched  her  lightly  on  the  cheek. 

O what  a loveliness  her  eyes 
Gather  in  that  one  moment’s  space, 
While  peeping  round  the  post  she  spies 
Her  darling’s  laughing  face  ! 

O mother’s  love  is  glorifying, 

On  the  cheek  like  sunset  lying ; 

In  the  eyes  a moistened  light, 

Softer  than  the  moon  at  night ! 

Thomas  Buebidge. 


THE  PET  LAMB. 

A PASTORAL. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to 
blink ; 

I heard  a voice ; it  said,  u Drink,  pretty 
creature,  drink ! ” 

And,  looking  o’er  the  hedge,  before  me  I 
espied 

A snow-white  mountain-lamb  with  a maiden 
at  its  side. 

Nor  sheep  nor  kine  were  near ; the  lamb  was 
all  alone, 

And  by  a slender  cord  was  tethered  to  a 
stone ; 

With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  the  little 
maiden  kneel, 

While  to  that  mountain-lamb  she  gave  its 
evening  meal. 

The  lamb,  while  from  her  hand  he  thus  his 
supper  took, 

Seemed  to  feast  with  head  and  ears ; and  his 
tail  with  pleasure  shook. 


“ Drink,  pretty  creature,  drink ! ” she  said, 
in  such  a tone 

That  I almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own 

’T  was  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a child  of 
beauty  rare ! 

I watched  them  with  delight : they  were  a 
lovely  pair. 

Now  with  her  empty  can  the  maiden  turned 
away  ; 

But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone,  her  footsteps 
did  she  stay. 

Right  towards  the  lamb  she  looked;  and 
from  a shady  place 

I unobserved  could  see  the  workings  of  her 
face. 

If  nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured  num- 
bers bring, 

Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  lamb  that  little  maid 
might  sing : — 

“What  ails  thee,  young  one?  what?  Why 
pull  so  at  thy  cord  ? 

Is  it  not  well  with  thee  ? well  both  for  bed 
and  board  ? 

Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass 
can  he ; 

Rest,  little  young  one,  rest ; what  is ’t  that 
aileth  thee  ? 

“ What  is  it  thou  would’st  seek  ? What  is 
wanting  to  thy  heart  ? 

Thy  limbs,  are  they  not  strong  ? And  beau- 
tiful thou  art. 

This  grass  is  tender  grass ; these  flowers  they 
have  no  peers ; 

And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling  in 
thy  ears ! 

“ If  the  sun  be  shining  hot,  do  but  stretch 
thy  woollen  chain — 

This  beech  is  standing  by,  its  covert  thou 
canst  gain ; 

For  rain  and  mountain-storms — the  like  thou 
need’st  not  fear ; 

The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that  scarcely 
can  come  here. 

“ Rest,  little  young  one,  rest ; thou  hast  for- 
got the  day 

When  my  father  found  thee  first  in  places  far 
away; 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 


139 


Many  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou  wert 
owned  by  none, 

And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  for  evermore 
was  gone. 

“He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity 
brought  thee  home : 

A blessed  day  for  thee ! Then  whither  wouldst 
thou  roam  ? 

A faithful  nurse  thou  hast — the  dam  that  did 
thee  yean 

Upon  the  mountain-tops  no  kinder  could 
have  been. 

“ Thou  know’st  that  twice  a day  I have 
brought  thee  in  this  can 

Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever 
ran ; 

And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is 
wet  with  dew, 

I bring  thee  draughts  of  milk — warm  milk 
it  is,  and  new. 

“ Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout  as 
they  are  now ; 

Then  I ’ll  yoke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a pony 
in  the  plough. 

My  playmate  thou  shalt  be ; and  when  the 
wind  is  cold, 

Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall 
be  thy  fold. 

“It  will  not,  will  not  rest! — Poor  creature 
can  it  be 

That ’t  is  thy  mother’s  heart  which  is  work- 
ing so  in  thee  ? 

Things  that  I know  not  of  belike  to  thee  are 
dear, 

And  dreams  of  things  which  thou  canst  nei- 
ther see  nor  hear. 

“ Alas,  the  mountain-tops  that  look  so  green 
and  fair ! 

I ’ve  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  darkness 
that  come  there ; 

The  little  brooks,  that  seem  all  pastime  and 
all  play, 

When  they  are  angry  roar  like  lions  for  their 
prey. 


“ Here  thou  need’st  not  dread  the  raven  in 
the  sky ; 

Night  and  day  thou  art  safe — our  cottage  is 
hard  by. 

Why  bleat  so  after  me  ? Why  pull  so  at  thy 
chain  ? 

Sleep — and  at  break  of  day  I will  come  to 
thee  again ! ” 

— As  homeward  through  the  lane  I went  with 
lazy  feet, 

This  song  to  myself  did  I oftentimes  repeat ; 

And  it  seemed,  as  I retraced  the  ballad  line 
by  line, 

That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half  of 
it  was  mine. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I repeat  the  song ; 

“ Nay,”  said  I,  “ more  than  half  to  the  dam- 
sel must  belong, 

For  she  looked  with  such  a look,  and  she 
spake  with  such  a tone, 

That  I almost  received  her  heart  into  my 
own.” 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER, 

ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

I. 

Dear  Fanny ! nine  long  years  ago, 

While  yet  the  morning  sun  was  low, 

And  rosy  with  the  eastern  glow 
The  landscape  smiled ; 

Whilst  lowed  the  newly-wakened  herds — 
Sweet  as  the  early  song  of  birds, 

I heard  those  first,  delightful  words, 

“ Thou  hast  a child ! ” 

ii. 

Along  with  that  uprising  dew 
Tears  glistened  in  my  eyes,  though  few, 
To  hail  a dawning  quite  as  new 
To  me,  as  Time : 

It  was  not  sorrow — not  annoy — 

But  like  a happy  maid,  though  coy, 

With  grief-like  welcome,  even  Joy 
Forestalls  its  prime. 


uo 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


in. 

So  may’st  thou  live,  dear ! many  years, 
In  all  the  bliss  that  life  endears, 

Not  without  smiles,  nor  yet  from  tears 
Too  strictly  kept. 

When  first  thy  infant  littleness 
I folded  in  my  fond  caress, 

The  greatest  proof  of  happiness 
Was  this — I wept. 

Thomas  Hood. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN. 

Sporting  through  the  forest  wide  ; 
Playing  by  the  waterside ; 

Wandering  o’er  the  heathy  fells ; 

Down  within  the  woodland  dells ; 

All  among  the  mountains  wild, 
Dwelleth  many  a little  child ! 

In  the  baron’s  hall  of  pride ; 

By  the  poor  man’s  dull  fireside  : 

’Mid  the  mighty,  ’mid  the  mean, 

Little  children  may  be  seen, 

Like  the  flowers  that  spring  up  fair, 
Bright  and  countless  every  where ! 

In  the  far  isles  of  the  main  ; 

In  the  desert’s  lone  domain ; 

In  the  savage  mountain-glen, 

’Mong  the  tribes  of  swarthy  men ; 
Whereso’er  a foot  hath  gone ; 
Whereso’er  the  sun  hath  shone 
On  a league  of  peopled  ground, 

Little  children  may  be  found ! 
Blessings  on  them  ! they  in  me 
Move  a kindly  sympathy, 

With  their  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears ; 
With  their  laughter  and  their  tears ; 
With  their  wonder  so  intense, 

And  their  small  experience ! 

Little  children,  not  alone 
On  the  wide  earth  are  ye  known, 

’Mid  its  labors  and  its  cares, 

’Mid  its  sufferings  and  its  snares ; 

Free  from  sorrow,  free  from  strife, 

In  the  world  of  love  and  life, 

Where  no  sinful  thing  hath  trod — 

In  the  presence  of  your  God, 

Spotless,  blameless,  glorified — 

Little  children,  ye  abide  ! 

Mary  IIowitt. 


A FANCY  ABOUT  A BOY. 

“Nothing, — less  than  nothing;  and  vanity.” 

We  stood  beside  the  window,  still — 

The  little  boy  and  I ; 

Within  the  room  was  sober  gloom ; 

Without,  a sunset  sky. 

I drew  him  forward  to  the  light, 

That  I might  view  him  plain : 

The  sudden  view  thrilled  my  heart  through 
With  a delicious  pain. 

I leant  his  head  back  o’er  my  arm, 

And  smoothed  his  crisped  hair — 

The  dear,  dear  curls,  o’er  which  salt  pearls 
I could  have  rained  out  there. 

I looked  beneath  his  heavy  lids, 

Drooping  with  dreamy  fold : 

What  visioned  eyes  I saw  arise ! 

But  nothing  shall  be  told. 

Gayly  I spoke : “ Could  I count  back 
Nine  years,  and  he  gain  nine, 

I would  not  say  what  ill  to-day 
Had  chanced  this  heart  of  mine.” 

He  laughed — all  laughed — I most  of  all ; 

But  I was  glad,  I ween, 

That  the  whole  room  lay  in  such  gloom 
His  face  alone  was  seen. 

He  talked  to  me  in  schoolboy  phrase ; 

I gave  him  meet  replies, 

I mind  not  what ; my  sense  was  nought, 

Or  lived  but  in  mine  eyes. 

I could  not  kiss  him  as  a child ; 

I only  touched  his  hair ; 

Or  with  my  hand  his  broad  brow  spanned, 
But  not  that  it  was  fair. 

He  strange  to  me,  as  I to  him — 

We  never  met  before ; 

Yet  I would  fain  brave  mickle  pain 
To  see  the  lad  once  more. 

But  why  this  was,  and  is,  God  knows ; 

And  I— I know,  with  joy 
I’ll  find,  among  His  angel-throng, 

An  angel  like  that  boy. 

Anonymous. 


THE  IDLE  SHEPHERD  BOYS. 


THE  IDLE  SHEPHERD  BOYS. 

A PA8TOEAL. 

The  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy; 
Among  the  hills  the  echoes  play 
A never,  never-ending  song, 

To  welcome  in  the  May. 

The  magpie  chatters  with  delight ; 

The  mountain  raven’s  youngling  brood 
Have  left  the  mother  and  the  nest ; 

And  they  go  rambling  east  and  west 
In  search  of  their  own  food ; 

Or  through  the  glittering  vapors  dart 
In  very  wantonness  of  heart. 

Beneath  a rock,  upon  the  grass, 

Two  boys  are  sitting  in  the  sun ; 

Their  work,  if  any  work  they  have, 

Is  out  of  mind, — or  done. 

On  pipes  of  sycamore  they  play 
The  fragments  of  a Christian  hymn ; 

Or  with  that  plant  which  in  our  dale 
We  call  stag-horn,  or  fox’s  tail, 

Their  rusty  hats  they  trim : 

And  thus,  as  happy  as  the  day, 

Those  shepherds  wear  the  time  away. 

Along  the  river’s  stony  marge 
The  sand-lark  chants  a joyous  song ; 

The  thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood, 

And  carols  loud  and  strong. 

A thousand  lambs  are  on  the  rocks, 

All  newly  born ! both  earth  and  sky 
Keep  jubilee,  and  more  than  all, 

Those  boys  with  their  green  coronal ; 

They  never  hear  the  cry, 

That  plaintive  cry ! which  up  the  hill 
Comes  from  the  depth  of  Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said  Walter,  leaping  from  the  ground, 

“ Down  to  the  stump  of  yon  old  yew 
We’ll  for  our  whistles  run  a race.” 

Away  the  shepherds  flew ; 

They  leapt — they  ran — and  when  they  came 
Right  opposite  to  Dungeon-Ghyll, 

Seeing  that  he  should  lose  the  prize, 
“Stop!”  to  his  comrade  Walter  cries. 
James  stopped  with  no  good  will. 

Said  Walter  then,  exulting,  “Here 
You’ll  find  a task  for  half  a year. 


141 

“ Cross,  if  you  dare,  where  I shall  cross, — 
Come  on,  and  tread  where  I shall  tread.” 
The  other  took  him  at  his  word, 

And  followed  as  he  led. 

It  was  a spot  which  you  may  see 
If  ever  you  to  Langdale  go ; 

Into  the  chasm  a mighty  block 
Hath  fallen,  and  made  a bridge  of  rock : 

The  gulf  is  deep  below ; 

And,  in  a basin  black  and  small, 

Receives  a lofty  waterfall. 

With  staff  in  hand  across  the  cleft 
The  challenger  pursued  his  march ; 

And  now,  all  eyes  and  feet,  hath  gained 
The  middle  of  the  arch. 

When  list ! he  hears  a piteous  moan. 

Again ! — his  heart  within  him  dies ; 

His  pulse  is  stopped,  his  breath  is  lost, 

He  totters,  pallid  as  a ghost, 

And,  looking  down,  espies 
A lamb,  that  in  the  pool  is  pent 
Within  that  black  and  frightful  rent. 

The  lamb  had  slipped  into  the  stream, 

And  safe  without  a bruise  or  wound 
The  cataract  had  borne  him  down 
Into  the  gulf  profound. 

His  dam  had  seen  him  when  he  fell — 

She  saw  him  down  the  torrent  borne ; 

And,  with  all  a mother’s  love, 

She  from  the  lofty  rocks  above 
Sent  forth  a cry  forlorn ; 

The  lamb,  still  swimming  round  and  round, 
Made  answer  in  that  plaintive  sound. 

When  he  had  learnt  what  thing  it  was 
That  sent  this  rueful  cry,  I ween 
The  boy  recovered  heart,  and  told 
The  sight  which  he  had  seen. 

Both  gladly  now  deferred  their  task ; 

Nor  was  there  wanting  other  aid : 

A Poet,  one  who  loves  the  brooks 
Far  better  than  the  sages’  books, 

By  chance  had  hither  strayed ; 

And  there  the  helpless  lamb  he  found 
By  those  huge  rocks  encompassed  round. 

He  drew  it  from  the  troubled  pool, 

And  brought  it  forth  into  the  light ; 

The  shepherds  met  him  with  his  charge, 


14‘2 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


An  unexpected  sight ! 

Into  their  arms  the  lamb  they  took, 

Whose  life  and  limbs  the  flood  had  spared ; 
Then  up  the  steep  ascent  they  hied, 

And  placed  him  at  his  mother's  side ; 

And  gently  did  the  Bard 
Those  idle  shepherd  boys  upbraid, 

And  bade  them  better  mind  their  trade. 

"William  "Wordsworth. 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY. 

Like  some  vision  olden 
Of  far  other  time, 

When  the  age  was  golden, 

In  the  young  world’s  prime, 

Is  thy  soft  pipe  ringing, 

0 lonely  shepherd  boy : 

What  song  art  thou  singing, 

In  thy  youth  and  joy? 

Or  art  thou  complaining 
Of  thy  lowly  lot, 

And  thine  own  disdaining, 

Dost  ask  what  thou  hast  not? 

Of  the  future  dreaming, 

Weary  of  the  past, 

For  the  present  scheming — 

All  but  what  thou  hast. 

Ho,  thou  art  delighting 
In  thy  summer  home ; 

Where  the  flowers  inviting 
Tempt  the  bee  to  roam ; 

Where  the  cowslip,  bending 
With  its  golden  bells, 

Of  each  glad  hour’s  ending 
With  a sweet  chime  tells. 

All  wild  creatures  love  him 
When  he  is  alone ; 

Every  bird  above  him 
Sings  its  softest  tone. 

Thankful  to  high  Heaven, 

Humble  in  thy  joy, 

Much  to  thee  is  given, 

Lowly  shepherd  boy. 

Letitia  Elizabeth  Maclean. 


LITTLE  BOY  BLUE. 

When  the  corn-fields  and  meadows 
Are  pearled  with  the  dew, 

With  the  first  sunny  shadow 
Walks  little  Boy  Blue. 

O the  Nymphs  and  the  Graces 
Still  gleam  on  his  eyes, 

And  the  kind  fairy  faces 
Look  down  from  the  skies ; 

And  a secret  revealing 
Of  life  within  life, 

When  feeling  meets  feeling 
In  musical  strife ; 

A winding  and  weaving 
In  flowers  and  in  trees, 

A floating  and  heaving 
In  sunlight  and  breeze  ; 

A striving  and  soaring, 

A gladness  and  grace, 

Make  him  kneel  half  adoring 
The  God  in  the  place. 

Then  amid  the  live  shadows 
Of  lambs  at  their  play, 

Where  the  kine  scent  the  meadows 
With  breath  like  the  May, 

He  stands  in  the  splendor 
That  waits  on  the  morn, 

And  a music  more  tender 
Distils  from  his  horn ; 

And  he  weeps,  he  rejoices, 

He  prays ; nor  in  vain, 

For  soft  loving  voices 
Will  answer  again ; 

And  the  Nymphs  and  the  Graces 
Still  gleam  through  the  dew, 

And  kind  fairy  faces 
Watch  little  Boy  Blue. 

Anonymous. 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING  HOOD. 


143 


LITTLE  RED  RIDING  HOOD. 

Come  back,  come  back  together, 

All  ye  fancies  of  the  past, 

Ye  days  of  April  weather, 

Ye  shadows  that  are  cast 
By  the  haunted  hours  before ! 

Come  back,  come  back,  my  Childhood ; 
Thou  art  summoned  by  a spell 

From  the  green  leaves  of  the  wildwood, 
From  beside  the  charmed  well, 

For  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore ! 

The  fields  were  covered  over 
With  colors  as  she  went ; 

Daisy,  buttercup,  and  clover 
Below  her  footsteps  bent ; 

Summer  shed  its  shining  store ; 

She  was  happy  as  she  pressed  them 
Beneath  her  little  feet ; 

She  plucked  them  and  caressed  them ; 
They  were  so  very  sweet, 

They  had  never  seemed  so  sweet  before, 

To  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

How  the  heart  of  childhood  dances 
Upon  a sunny  day ! 

It  has  its  own  romances, 

And  a wide,  wide  world  have  they ! 

A world  where  Phantasie  is  king, 

Made  all  of  eager  dreaming ; 

When  once  grown  up  and  tall — 

Now  is  the  time  for  scheming — 

Then  we  shall  do  them  all ! 

Do  such  pleasant  fancies  spring 
For  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

She  seems  like  an  ideal  love, 

The  poetry  of  childhood  shown, 

And  yet  loved  with  a real  love, 

As  if  she  were  our  own — 

A younger  sister  for  the  heart ; 

Like  the  woodland  pheasant, 

Her  hair  is  brown  and  bright ; 

And  her  smile  is  pleasant, 


With  its  rosy  light. 

Never  can  the  memory  part 
With  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

Did  the  painter,  dreaming 
In  a morning  hour, 

Catch  the  fairy  seeming 
Of  this  fairy  flower  ? 

Winning  it  with  eager  eyes 
From  the  old  enchanted  stories, 

Lingering  with  a long  delight 
On  the  unforgotten  glories 
Of  the  infant  sight  ? 

Giving  us  a sweet  surprise 
In  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 

The  flower  of  fairy  lore  ? 

Too  long  in  the  meadow  staying, 

Where  the  cowslip  bends, 

With  the  buttercups  delaying 
As  with  early  friends, 

Did  the  little  maiden  stay. 

Sorrowful  the  tale  for  us ; 

We,  too,  loiter  mid  life’s  flowers, 

A little  while  so  glorious, 

So  soon  lost  in  darker  hours. 

All  love  lingering  on  their  way, 

Like  Red  Riding  Hood,  the  darling, 
The  flower  of  fairy  lore. 

LjETitia  Elizabeth  Maclean. 


THE  GAMBOLS  OF  CHILDREN. 

Down  the  dimpled  green-sward  dancing, 
Bursts  a flaxen-headed  bevy — 

Bud-lipt  boys  and  girls  advancing, 

Love’s  irregular  little  levy. 

Rows  of  liquid  eyes  in  laughter, 

How  they  glimmer,  how  they  quiver ! 

Sparkling  one  another  after, 

Like  bright  ripples  on  a river. 

Tipsy  band  of  rubious  faces, 

Flushed  with  Joy’s  ethereal  spirit, 

Make  your  mocks  and  sly  grimaces 
At  Love’s  self,  and  do  not  fear  it. 

Georoe  Darlkt. 


144 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 

i. 

Hamelix  Town ’s  in  Brunswick, 

By  famous  Hanover  city ; 

The  river  Weser,  deep  and  -wide, 

"Washes  its  wall  on  the  southern  side  ; 

A pleasanter  spot  you  never  spied ; 

But  when  begins  my  ditty, 

Almost  five  hundred  years  ago, 

To  see  the  townsfolk  suffer  so 
From  vermin,  was  a pity. 

ii. 

Rats  ! 

They  fought  the  dogs,  and  killed  the  cats, 
And  hit  the  babies  in  the  cradles, 

And  ate  the  cheeses  out  of  the  vats, 

And  licked  the  soup  from  the  cook’s  own 
ladles, 

Split  open  the  kegs  of  salted  sprats, 

Made  nests  inside  men’s  Sunday  hats, 

And  even  spoiled  the  women’s  chats, 

By  drowning  their  speaking 
With  shrieking  and  squeaking 
In  fifty  different  sharps  and  flats. 

m. 

At  last  the  people  in  a body 

To  the  Town  Hall  came  flocking : 

“ ’T  is  clear,”  cried  they,  “ our  Mayor’s  a 
noddy ; 

And  as  for  our  Corporation — shocking 
To  think  we  buy  gowns  lined  with  ermine 
For  dolts  that  can’t  or  won’t  determine 
What’s  best  to  rid  us  of  our  vermin ! 

You  hope,  because  you’re  old  and  obese, 

To  find  in  the  furry  civic  robe  ease  ? 

Rouse  up,  Sirs ! Give  your  brains  a racking 
To  find  the  remedy  we  ’re  lacking, 

Or,  sure  as  fate,  we  ’ll  send  you  packing ! ” 
At  this  the  Mayor  and  Corporation 
Ouaked  with  a mighty  consternation. 

IV. 

An  hour  they  sate  in  counsel — 

At  length  the  Mayor  broke  silence : 

“Fora  guilder  I ’d  my  ermine  gown  sell ; 

I wish  I were  a mile  hence ! 

It ’s  easy  to  bid  one  rack  one’s  brain — 

I’m  sure  my  poor  head  aches  again. 


I ’ve  scratched  it  so,  and  all  in  vain. 

Oh  for  a trap,  a trap,  a trap ! ” 

Just  as  he  said  this,  what  should  hap 
At  the  chamber  door  but  a gentle  tap  ? 

“ Bless  us,”  cried  the  Mayor,  “ what’s  that?  ” 
(With  the  Corporation  as  he  sat, 

Looking  little  though  wondrous  fat ; 

Nor  brighter  was  his  eye,  nor  moister 
Than  a too-long-opened  oyster, 

Save  when  at  noon  his  paunch  grew  mutinous 
For  a plate  of  turtle,  green  and  glutinous,) 

“ Only  a scraping  of  shoes  on  the  mat  ? 
Anything  like  the  sound  of  a rat 
Makes  my  heart  go  pit-a-pat ! ” 

V. 

“Come  in!” — the  Mayor  cried,  looking 
bigger : 

And  in  did  come  the  strangest  figure ! 

His  queer  long  coat  from  heel  to  head 
Was  half  of  yellow  and  half  of  red ; 

And  he  himself  was  tall  and  thin ; 

With  sharp  blue  eyes,  each  like  a pin ; 

And  light  loose  hair,  yet  swarthy  skin  ; 

No  tuft  on  cheek  nor  beard  on  chin, 

But  lips  where  smiles  went  out  and  in — 
There  was  no  guessing  his  kith  and  kin ! 

And  nobody  could  enough  admire 
The  tall  man  and  his  quaint  attire. 

Quoth  one : “ It ’s  as  my  great-grandsire, 
Starting  up  at  the  Trump  of  Doom’s  tone, 
Had  walked  this  way  from  his  painted  tomb- 
stone ! ” 

VI. 

He  advanced  to  the  council-table : 

And,  “ Please  your  honours,”  said  he,  “I’m 
able, 

By  means  of  a secret  charm,  to  draw 
All  creatures  living  beneath  the  sun, 

That  creep,  or  swim,  or  fly,  or  run, 

After  me  so  as  you  never  saw  ! 

And  I chiefly  use  my  charm 
On  creatures  that  do  people  harm — 

The  mole,  and  toad,  and  newt,  and  viper — 
And  people  call  me  the  Pied  Piper.” 

(And  here  they  noticed  round  his  neck 
A scarf  of  red  and  yellow  stripe, 

To  match  with  his  coat  of  the  self  same 
check ; 

And  at  the  scarf’s  end  hung  a pipe ; 


THE  PIED  PIPER  OF  HAMELIN. 


145 


And  his  fingers,  they  noticed,  were  ever 
straying 

As  if  impatient  to  he  playing 
Upon  this  pipe,  as  low  it  dangled 
Over  his  vesture  so  old-fangled.) 

“ Yet,”  said  he,  “ poor  piper  as  I am, 

In  Tartary  I freed  the  Cham, 

Last  June,  from  his  huge  swarm  of  gnats  ; 

I eased  in  Asia  the  Nizam 

Of  a monstrous  brood  of  vampire-bats ; 

And,  as  for  what  your  brain  bewilders — 

If  I can  rid  your  town  of  rats, 

Will  you  give  me  a thousand  guilders  ? ” 

‘ ‘ One  ? fifty  thousand ! ” — was  the  exclamation 
Of  the  astonished  Mayor  and  Corporation. 

VII. 

Into  the  street  the  Piper  stept, 

Smiling  first  a little  smile, 

As  if  he  knew  what  magic  slept 
In  his  quiet  pipe  the  while ; 

Then,  like  a musical  adept, 

To  blow  the  pipe  his  lips  he  wrinkled, 

And  green  and  blue  his  sharp  eyes  twinkled, 
Like  a candle  flame  where  salt  is  sprinkled ; 
And  ere  three  shrill  notes  the  pipe  uttered, 
You  heard  as  if  an  army  muttered ; 

And  the  muttering  grew  to  a grumbling  ; 
And  the  grumbling  grew  to  a mighty  rum- 
bling ; 

And  out  of  the  houses  the  rats  came  tum- 
bling. 

Great  rats,  small  rats,  lean  rats,  brawny  rats, 
Brown  rats,  black  rats,  grey  rats,  tawny  rats, 
Grave  old  plodders,  gay  young  friskers, 
Fathers,  mothers,  uncles,  cousins, 

Cocking  tails  and  pricking  whiskers ; 

Families  by  tens  and  dozens, 

Brothers,  sisters,  husbands,  wives — 

Followed  the  Piper  for  their  lives. 

From  street  to  street  he  piped  advancing, 
And  step  for  step  they  followed  dancing, 
Until  they  came  to  the  river  Weser 
Wherein  all  plunged  and  perished 
— Save  one  who,  stout  as  Julius  Caesar, 

Swam  across  and  lived  to  carry 
(As  he  the  manuscript  he  cherished) 

To  Rat-land  home  his  commentary, 

Which  was : “ At  the  first  shrill  notes  of  the 
pipe, 

I heard  a sound  as  of  scraping  tripe, 

10 


And  putting  apples,  wondrous  ripe, 

Into  a cider-press’s  gripe — 

And  a moving  away  of  pickle-tub-boards, 
And  a leaving  ajar  of  conserve-cupboards, 
And  a drawing  the  corks  of  train-oil-flasks, 
And  a breaking  the  hoops  of  butter-casks  ; 
And  it  seemed  as  if  a voice 
(Sweeter  far  than  by  harp  or  by  psaltery 
Is  breathed)  called  out,  O rats,  rejoice ! 

The  world  is  grown  to  one  vast  drysaltery ! 
So  munch  on,  crunch  on,  take  your  nuncheon, 
Breakfast,  supper,  dinner,  luncheon ! 

And  just  as  a bulky  sugar-puncheon, 

All  ready  staved,  like  a great  sun  shone 
Glorious,  scarce  an  inch  before  me, 

Just  as  methought  it  said,  Come,  bore  me ! 
— I found  the  Weser  rolling  o’er  me.” 

VIII. 

You  should  have  heard  the  Hamelin  people 
Ringing  the  bells  till  they  rocked  the  steeple ; 
“ Go,”  cried  the  Mayor,  “ and  get  long  poles ! 
Poke  out  the  nests  and  block  up  the  holes ! 
Consult  with  carpenters  and  builders, 

Amd  leave  in  our  town  not  even  a trace 
Of  the  rats ! ” — when  suddenly,  up  the  face 
Of  the  Piper  perked  in  the  market-place, 
With  a,  “First,  if  you  please,  my  thousand 
guilders ! ” 

IX. 

A thousand  guilders  ! The  Mayor  looked 
blue ; 

So  did  the  Corporation  too. 

For  council  dinners  made  rare  havock 
With  Claret,  Moselle,  Vin-de-Grave,  Hock ; 
And  half  the  money  would  replenish 
Their  cellar’s  biggest  butt  with  Rhenish. 

To  pay  this  sum  to  a wandering  fellow 
With  a gipsy  coat  of  red  and  yellow ! 

“ Beside,”  quoth  the  Mayor,  with  a knowing 
wink, 

“ Our  business  was  done  at  the  river’s  brink ; 
We  saw  with  our  eyes  the  vermin  sink, 

And  what’s  dead  can’t  come  to  life,  I think. 
So,  friend,  we  ’re  not  the  folks  to  shrink 
From  the  duty  of  giving  you  something  for 
drink, 

And  a matter  of  money  to  put  in  your  poke  ; 
But,  as  for  the  guilders,  what  we  spoke 
Of  them,  as  you  very  well  know,  was  in  joke. 


146 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


Beside,  our  losses  have  made  us  thrifty ; 

A thousand  guilders ! Come,  take  fifty ! ” 

x. 

The  piper’s  face  fell,  and  he  cried, 

“ No  trifling ! I can’t  wait ! beside, 

I ’ve  promised  to  visit  by  dinner  time 
Bagdat,  and  accept  the  prime 
Of  the  Head  Cook’s  pottage,  all  he ’s  rich  in, 
For  having  left,  in  the  Caliph’s  kitchen, 

Of  a nest  of  scorpion’s  no  survivor — 

With  him  I proved  no  bargain-driver; 

With  you,  don’t  think  I ’ll  bate  a stiver ! 

And  folks  who  put  me  in  a passion 
May  find  me  pipe  to  another  fashion.” 

XI. 

“ How?”  cried  the  Mayor,  “d’ye  think  I’ll 
brook 

Being  worse  treated  than  a cook  ? 

Insulted  by  a lazy  ribald 

With. idle  pipe  and  vesture  piebald? 

You  threaten  us,  fellow  ? Do  your  worst, 
Blow  your  pipe  there  till  you  burst ! ” 

XII. 

Once  more  he  stept  into  the  street ; 

And  to  his  lips  again 

Laid  his  long  pipe  of  smooth  straight  cane ; 

And  ere  he  blew  three  notes  (such  sweet 
Soft  notes  as  yet  musician’s  cunning 
Never  gave  the  enraptured  air) 

There  was  a rustling  that  seemed  like  a bus- 
tling 

Of  merry  crowds  justling  at  pitching  and 
hustling ; 

Small  feet  were  pattering,  wooden  shoes 
clattering, 

Little  hands  clapping,  and  little  tongues 
chattering ; 

And,  like  fowls  in  a farm-yard  when  barley 
is  scattering, 

Out  came  the  children  running. 

All  the  little  boys  and  girls, 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  flaxen  curls, 

And  sparkling  eyes  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
Tripping  and  skipping,  ran  merrily  after 
The  wonderful  music  with  shouting  and 
laughter. 


XIII. 

The  Mayor  was  dumb,  and  the  Council  stood 
As  if  they  were  changed  into  blocks  of  wood, 
Unable  to  move  a step,  or  cry 
To  the  children  merrily  skipping  by — 

And  could  only  follow  with  the  eye 
That  joyous  crowd  at  the  Piper’s  back. 

But  how  the  Mayor  was  on  the  rack, 

And  the  wretched  Council’s  bosoms  beat, 

As  the  Piper  turned  from  the  High  Street 
To  where  the  Weser  rolled  its  waters 
Right  in  the  way  of  their  sons  and  daughters ! 
However,  he  turned  from  South  to  West, 

And  to  Koppelberg  Hill  his  steps  addressed, 
And  after  him  the  children  pressed ; 

Great  was  the  joy  in  every  breast. 

“ He  never  can  cross  that  mighty  top  ! 

He ’s  forced  to  let  the  piping  drop, 

And  we  shall  see  our  children  stop ! ” 

When,  lo,  as  they  reached  the  mountain’s  side, 
A wondrous  portal  opened  wide, 

As  if  a cavern  was  suddenly  hollowed ; 

And  the  Piper  advanced  and  the  children 
followed ; 

And  when  all  were  in,  to  the  very  last, 

The  door  in  the  mountain  side  shut  fast. 

Did  I say  all  ? No ! One  was  lame, 

And  could  not  dance  the  whole  of  the  way ! 
And  in  after  years,  if  you  would  blame 
His  sadness,  he  was  used  to  say, — 

“It’s  dull  in  our  town  since  my  playmates 
left! 

I can’t  forget  that  I’m  bereft 
Of  all  the  pleasant  sights  they  see, 

Which  the  Piper  also  promised  me ; 

For  he  led  us,  he  said,  to  a joyous  land, 
Joining  the  town  and  just  at  hand, 

Where  waters  gushed  and  fruit-trees  grew, 
And  flowers  put  forth  a fairer  hue, 

And  every  thing  was  strange  and  new ; 

The  sparrows  were  brighter  than  peacocks 
here, 

And  their  dogs  outran  our  fallow  deer, 

And  honey-bees  had  lost  their  stings, 

And  horses  were  born  with  eagles’  wings ; 
And  just  as  I became  assured 
My  lame  foot  would  be  speedily  cured, 

The  music  stopped  and  I stood  still, 

And  found  myself  outside  the  Hill, 

Left  alone  against  my  will, 


A VISIT  FROM 

To  go  now  limping  as  before, 

And  never  hear  of  that  country  more  ! ” 

XIV. 

Alas,  alas  for  Hamelin ! 

There  came  into  many  a burgher’s  pate 
A text  which  says,  that  Heaven’s  gate 
Opes  to  the  rich  at  as  easy  rate 
As  the  needle’s  eye  takes  a camel  in ! 

The  Mayor  sent  East,  West,  North,  and 
South, 

To  offer  the  piper  by  word  of  mouth, 
Wherever  it  was  men’s  lot  to  find  him, 
Silver  and  gold  to  his  heart’s  content, 

If  he ’d  only  return  the  way  he  went, 

And  bring  the  children  behind  him. 

But  when  they  saw  ’twas  a lost  endeavor, 
And  Piper  and  dancers  were  gone  for  ever, 
They  made  a decree  that  lawyers  never 
Should  think  their  records  dated  duly 
If,  after  the  day  of  the  month  and  year, 
These  words  did  not  as  well  appear, 

“ And  so  long  after  what  happened  here 
On  the  Twenty-second  of  July, 

Thirteen  Hundred  and  Seventy-six : ” 

And  the  better  in  memory  to  fix 
The  place  of  the  Children’s  last  retreat 
They  called  it  the  Pied  Piper’s  Street — 
Where  any  one  playing  on  pipe  or  tabor 
Was  sure  for  the  future  to  lose  his  labor. 

Nor  suffered  they  hostelry  or  tavern 
To  shock  with  mirth  a street  so  solemn ; 
But  opposite  the  place  of  the  cavern 
They  wrote  the  story  on  a column, 

And  on  the  Great  Church  window  painted 
The  same,  to  make  the  world  acquainted 
How  their  children  were  stolen  away ; 

And  there  it  stands  to  this  very  day. 

And  I must  not  omit  to  say 

That  in  Transylvania  there’s  a tribe 

Of  alien  people  that  ascribe 

The  outlandish  ways  and  dress 

On  which  their  neighbors  lay  such  stress 

To  their  fathers  and  mothers  having  risen 

Cut  of  some  subterranean  prison 

Into  which  they  were  trepanned 

Long  time  ago,  in  a mighty  band, 

Out  of  Hamelin  town  in  Brunswick  land, 

But  how  or  why,  they  don’t  understand. 


ST.  NICHOLAS.  147 


xv. 

So,  Willy,  let  you  and  me  be  wipers 
Of  scores  out  with  all  men — especially  pipers : 
And,  whether  they  pipe  us  free  from  rats  or 
from  mice, 

If  we ’ve  promised  them  aught,  let  us  keep 
our  promise. 

Robert  Browning. 


A VISIT  FROM  ST.  NICHOLAS. 

’T  was  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all 
through  the  house 

Not  a creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a mouse ; 

The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with 
care, 

In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be 
there ; 

The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their 
beds, 

While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their 
heads ; 

And  Mamma  in  her  kerchief  and  I in  my 
cap, 

Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a long  winter’s 
nap — 

When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a 
clatter, 

I sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the 
matter. 

Away  to  the  window  I flew  like  a flash, 

Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the  sash. 

The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen 
snow, 

Gave  a lustre  of  mid-day  to  objects  below; 

When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should 
appear, 

But  a miniature  sleigh,  and  eight  tiny  rein- 
deer, 

With  a little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 

I knew  in  a moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 

More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they 
came, 

And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called 
them  by  name ; 

“ Now,  Dasher ! now,  Dancer ! now,  Prancer 
and  Vixen  I 

On!  Comet,  on!  Cupid,  on!  Donder  and 
Blitzen — 


148 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the 
wall! 

Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away 
all!” 

As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane 

fly, 

When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to 
the  sky, 

So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they 
flew, 

With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys — and  St.  Nicho- 
las too. 

And  then  in  a twinkling  I heard  on  the  roof 

The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 

As  I drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning 
around, 

Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a 
bound. 

He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to 
his  foot, 

And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes 
and  soot ; 

A bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  hack, 

And  he  looked  like  a pedler  just  opening  his 
pack. 

His  eyes  how  they  twinkled!  his  dimples  how 
merry ! 

His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a 
cherry ; 

His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a 
bow, 

And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as 
the  snow. 

The  stump  of  a pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth, 

And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a 
wreath. 

He  had  a broad  face  and  a little  round  belly 

That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a bowl  full 
of  jelly. 

He  was  chubby  and  plump — a right  jolly  old 
elf; 

And  I laughed  when  I saw  him,  in  spite  of 
myself. 

A wink  of  his  eye,  and  a twist  of  his  head, 

Soon  gave  me  to  know  I had  nothing  to  dread. 

He  spoke  not  a word,  but  went  straight  to 
his  work, 

And  filled  all  the  stockings ; then  turned  with 
a jerk, 

And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 

And  giving  a nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 


He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a 
whistle, 

And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a 
thistle ; 

But  I heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of 
sight, 

“ Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a good- 
night ! ” 

Clement  C.  Moobe. 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

I love  to  look  on  a scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 

And  persuade  myself  that  I am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray ; 

For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man’s  heart, 
And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 

To  catch  the  thrill  of  a happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a pleasant  eye. 

I have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years, 
And  they  say  that  I am  old — 

That  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper  Death, 
And  my  years  are  well-nigh  told. 

It  is  very  true — it  is  very  true — 

I am  old,  and  I “ bide  my  time ; ” 

But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a scene  like  this, 
And  I half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on ! play  on ! I am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring ; 

I can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  the  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 

I hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I whoop  the  smothered  call, 

And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I care  not  for  the  fall. 

I am  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 
And  I shall  be  glad  to  go — 

For  the  world,  at  best,  is  a weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 

But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 
In  treading  its  gloomy  way ; 

And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness 
To  see  the  young  so  gay. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis. 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS.  149 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Ah  me ! full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 

To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies, 
While  partial  Fame  doth  with  her  blasts 
adorn 

Such  deeds  alone  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprise. 
Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess ! let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit,  ere  it  dies, 
Such  as  I oft  have  chaunced  to  espy, 

Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 

In  every  village  marked  with  little  spire, 
Embowered  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to 
Fame, 

There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed  and  mean  attire, 
A matron  old,  whom  we  Schoolmistress 
name, 

Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame ; 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Awed  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame; 
And  ofttimes,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 

For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconned,  are 
sorely  shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a birchen  tree, 
Which  Learning  near  her  little  dome  did 
stow, 

Whilom  a twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 
Though  notv  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow, 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe ; 
For  not  a wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that 
blew, 

But  their  limbs  shuddered,  and  their  pulse 
beat  low ; 

And  as  they  looked,  they  found  their  horror 
grew, 

And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the 
view 

So  have  I seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive) 
A lifeless  phantom  near  a garden  placed ; 

So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave, 

Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast ; 

They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they  look 
aghast ; 

Sad  servitude ! such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Briton’s  riper  age  e’er  taste  ! 


Ho  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy, 

Ho  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Hear  to  this  dome  is  found  a patch  so  green, 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display ; 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning-board  is  seen, 
Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should 
stray, 

Eager,  nerdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 

The  noises  intermixed,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  Learning’s  little  tenement  betray ; 

Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  pro- 
found, 

And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her 
wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield ; 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I trowe, 

As  is  the  hare-bell  that  adorns  the  field ; 

And  in  her  hand  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays,  with  anxious  fears  en- 
twined, 

With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  filled, 
And  stedfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  joined, 
And  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  un- 
kind. 

Few  but  have  kenned,  in  semblance  meet  por- 
trayed, 

The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol’s  train ; 

Libs,  Hotus,  Auster ; these  in  frowns  arrayed, 
How  then  would  fare  or  earth,  or  sky,  or 
main, 

Were  the  stern  god  to  give  his  slaves  the 
rein? 

And  were  not  she  rebellious  breasts  to  quell, 
And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  maintain, 
The  cot  no  more,  I ween,  were  deemed  the 
cell, 

Where  comely  peace  of  mind  and  decent 
order  dwell. 

A russet  stole  was  o’er  her  shoulders  thrown ; 
A russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air ; 

’T  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own ; 

’T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so 
fair ; 

’T  was  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece  prepare ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  ranged  around, 
Through  pious  awe  did  term  it  passing  rare ; 


150 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 

And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest 
wight  on  ground ! 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 

ISTe  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 
Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n’aunt,  forsooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear ; 

Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held  right 
dear ; 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove, 
Who  should  not  honored  eld  with  these  re- 
vere ; 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 

But  there  was  eke  a mind  which  did  that 
title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame ; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need, 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came ! 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim ; 
And  if  Neglect  had  lavished  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same ; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  ex- 
pound, 

What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb 
she  found. 

Herbs,  too,  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could 
speak, 

That  in  her  garden  sipped  the  silvery  dew, 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a gaudy 
streak ; 

But  herbs  for  use  and  physic  not  a few, 

Of  grey  renown,  within  these  borders  grew ; 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 

Fresh  balm,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue, 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb ; 
And  more  I fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here 
to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung, 

That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues 
around ; 

And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant’s  tongue  ; 
And  plantain  ribbed,  that  heals  the  reaper’s 
wound ; 

And  marjoram  sweet,  in  shepherd’s  posie 
found ; 


And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be  ere  while  in  arid  bundles  bound, 

To  lurk  amid  the  labors  of  her  loom, 

And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean  with  mickle 
rare  perfume. 

And  here  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom 
crowned 

The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer, 
Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found 
A sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here ; 
Where  edged  with  gold  its  glittering  skirts 
appear. 

Oh  wassel  days ! G customs  meet  and  well ! 
Ere  this  was  banished  from  its  lofty  sphere ! 
Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 

Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and 
lordling  dwell. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath’s  decent  eve, 
Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did 
mete. 

If  winter  ’t  were,  she  to  her  hearth  did 
cleave, 

But  in  her  garden  found  a summer-seat ; 
Sweet  melody ! to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel’s  sons,  beneath  a foreign  king, 
While  taunting  foemen  did  a song  entreat, 
All  for  the  nonce  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had 
they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore, 
And  passed  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed ; 
And  in  those  elfin  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The  times  when  truth  by  Popish  rage  did 
bleed, 

And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion’s 
meed, 

And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn. 
That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed ; 
And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did 
burn ; 

Ah,  dearest  Lord,  forefend  thilk  days  should 
e’er  return ! 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defaced, 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 

Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is 
placed, 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


151 


The  matron  sate,  and  some  with  rank  she 
graced, 

(The  source  of  children’s  and  of  courtiers’ 
pride !) 

Redressed  affronts,  for  vile  affronts  there 
passed ; 

And  warned  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them 
betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry  ; 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to 
raise ; 

Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of 
praise ; 

And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  frays ; 
E’en  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she 
sways ; 

Forewarned  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 
’T  will  whisper  in  her  ear  and  all  the  scene 
unfold. 

Lo ! now  with  state  she  utters  the  command ; 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair ; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in 
hand, 

Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are, 

To  save  from  fingers  wet  the  letters  fair ; 

The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George’s  high  achievements  doth  declare ; 
On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 
Kens  the  forthcoming  rod — unpleasing  sight, 
I ween ! 

Ah  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star ! it  irks  me  while  I write ; 

As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla’s  silver  stream, 

Oft  as  he  told  of  deadly,  dolorous  plight, 
Sighed  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 
For,  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling’s  late  de- 
light! 

And  down  they  drop ; appears  his  dainty 
skin, 

Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

O ruthful  scene  ! when  from  a nook  obscure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see ; 

All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure  ; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee  ; 


She  meditates  a prayer  to  set  him  free  ; 

Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny, 

(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree) 

To  her  sad  grief,  which  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could 
die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command, 
And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear, 
To  rushen  forth,  and  with  presumptuous 
hand 

To  stay  harsh  justice  in  his  mid-career. 

On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee,  her  parent  dear ! 
(Ah ! too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow !) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near  ; 

And  soon  a flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow, 

And  gives  a loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

But  ah  ! what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may 
trace  ? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain  ? 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  ? 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain  ? 
The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek 
distain  ? 

When  he  in  abject  wise  implores  the  dame, 
Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain ; 
Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 
And  through  the  thatch  his  cries  each  falling 
stroke  proclaim. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 
Attend,  and  con  their  tasks  with  mickle  care ; 
By  turns,  astonied,  every  twig  survey, 

And  from  their  fellow’s  hateful  wounds  be- 
ware, 

Knowing,  I wis,  how  each  the  same  may 
share, 

Till  fear  has  taught  them  a performance  meet, 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  re- 
pair, 

Whence  oft  with  sugared  cates  she  doth  them 
greet, 

And  ginger-bread  y-rare ; now,  certes,  doubly 
sweet. 

See  to  their  seats  they  hie  with  merry  glee, 
And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there ; 

All  but  the  wight  of  bum  y-galled ; ho 
Abhorreth  bench,  and  stool,  and  fourm,  and 
chair 


152 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


(This  hand  in  month  y -fixed,  that  rends  his 
hair ;) 

And  eke  with  snnbs  profound,  and  heaving 
breast, 

Convulsions  intermitting,  doth  declare 

His  grievous  wrong,  his  dame’s  unjust  behest; 

And  scorns  her  offered  love,  and  shuns  to  be 
caressed. 

His  face  besprent  with  liquid  crystal  shines, 

His  blooming  face  that  seems  a purple  flower, 

Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  de- 
clines, 

All  smeared  and  sullied  by  a vernal  shower. 

0 the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  power ! 

All,  all  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 

All,  all  but  she,  regret  this  mournful  hour ; 

Yet  hence  the  youth,  and  hence  the  flower 
shall  claim, 

If  so  I deem  aright,  transcending  worth  and 
fame. 


Behind  some  door,  in  melancholy  thought, 
Mindless  of  food,  he,  dreary  caitiff!  pines ; 
Ne  for  his  fellows’  joyaunce  careth  aught, 
But  to  the  wind  all  merriment  resigns ; 

And  deems  it  shame  if  he  to  peace  inclines ; 
And  many  a sullen  look  askance  is  sent, 
Which  for  his  dame’s  annoyance  he  designs ; 
And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she ’s  bent, 
The  more  doth  he  perverse,  her  haviour  past 
resent. 

Ah  me ! how  much  I fear  lest  pride  it  be ! 
But  if  that  pride  it  be,  which  thus  inspires, 
Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment  see, 
Ye  quench  not  too  the  sparks  of  noble  fires. 
Ah ! better  far  than  all  the  Muses’  lyres, 

All  coward  arts,  is  valor’s  generous  heat ; 
The  firm  fixt  breast  which  fit  and  right  re- 
quires, 

Like  Vernon’s  patriot  soul ! more  justly  great 
Than  craft  that  pimps  for  ill  or  flowery  false 
deceit. 

Yet  nursed  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits 
appear ! 

E’en  now  sagacious  Foresight  points  to  show 
A little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here, 

And  there  a chancellor  in  embryo, 


Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e’er  be  so, 

As  Milton,  Shakespeare,  names  that  ne’ei 
shall  die ! 

Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so 
low, 

Nor  weeting  how  the  Muse  should  soar  on 
high, 

Wisheth,  poor  starveling  elf ! his  paper  kite 
may  fly. 


And  this  perhaps,  who,  censuring  the  design, 
Low  lays  the  house  which  that  of  cards  doth 
build, 

Shall  Dennis  be ! if  rigid  Fate  incline, 

And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield ; 
And  many  a poet  quit  th’  Aonian  field, 

And,  soured  by  age,  profound  he  shall  ap- 
pear, 

As  he  who  now  with  ’sdainful  fury  thrilled 
Surveys  mine  work ; and  levels  many  a sneer, 
And  furls  his  wrinkly  front,  and  cries,  “ What 
stuff  is  here  ? ” 


And  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  skie, 
And  Liberty  unbars  her  prison-door ; 

And  like  a rushing  torrent  out  they  fly, 

And  now  the  grassy  cirque  had  covered  o’er 
With  boisterous  revel-rout  and  wild  uproar ; 
A thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run  ; 
Heaven  shield  their  short-lived  pastimes,  I 
implore ! 

For  well  may  freedom  erst  so  dearly  won, 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than 
the  sun. 


Enjoy,  poor  imps ! enjoy  your  sportive  trade, 

And  chase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flow- 
ers, 

For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods  are 
laid; 

For  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 

In  knightly  castles,  or  in  ladies’  bowers. 

O vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing ! 

But  most  in  courts  where  proud  Ambition 
towers ; 

Deluded  wight!  who  weens  fair  peace  can 
spring 

Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of 
king. 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  WOOD. 


158 


See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear ! 
These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay ; 

Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund 
leer 

Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way ; 

Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay ; 
Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend, 
With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to 
play; 

Thilk  to  the  huxter’s  savory  cottage  tend, 

In  pastry  kings  and  queens  th’  allotted  mite 
to  spend. 

Here,  as  each  season  yields  a different  store, 
Each  season’s  stores  in  order  ranged  been ; 
Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-covered  o’er, 
Galling  full  sore  th’  unmoneyed  wight,  are 
seen ; 

And  goose-b’rie  clad  in  livery  red  or  green ; 
And  here  of  lovely  dye,  the  Catharine  pear, 
Fine  pear ! as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I ween : 

O may  no  wight  e’er  pennyless  come  there, 
Lest  smit  with  ardent  love  he  pine  with 
hopeless  care ! 

See ! cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 
With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  ty’d, 
Scattering  like  blooming  maid  their  glances 
round, 

With  pampered  look  draw  little  eyes  aside ; 
And  must  be  bought,  though  penury  betide. 
The  plumb  all  azure  and  the  nut  all  brown, 
And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes  abide, 
Whose  honored  names  th’  inventive  city 
own, 

Rendering  through  Britain’s  isle  Salopia’s 
praises  known. 

Admired  Salopia ! that  with  venial  pride 
Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn’s  ambient 
wave, 

Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  tried, 

Her  daughters  lovely,  and  her  striplings 
brave : 

Ah ! midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn  his 
grave, 

Whose  art  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  display! 
A motive  fair  to  Learning’s  imps  he  gave, 
Who  cheerless  o’er  her  darkling  region  stray  ; 
Till  Reason’s  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on 
their  way. 

William  Siien8tone. 


THE  CHILDREN  IN  THE  WOOD. 

Now  ponder  well,  you  parents  dear, 

The  words  which  I shall  write ; 

A doleful  story  you  shall  hear, 

In  time  brought  forth  to  light : 

A gentleman,  of  good  account, 

In  Norfolk  lived  of  late, 

Whose  wealth  and  riches  did  surmount 
Most  men  of  his  estate. 

Sore  sick  he  was,  and  like  to  die, 

No  help  then  he  could  have; 

His  wife  by  him  as  sick  did  lie, 

And  both  possessed  one  grave. 

No  love  between  these  two  was  lost, 
Each  was  to  other  kind ; 

In  love  they  lived,  in  love  they  died, 

And  left  two  babes  behind : 

The  one  a fine  and  pretty  boy, 

Not  passing  three  years  old 
The  other  a girl,  more  young  than  he, 
And  made  in  beauty’s  mould. 

The  father  left  his  little  son, 

As  plainly  doth  appear, 

When  he  to  perfect  age  should  come, 
Three  hundred  pounds  a year 

And  to  his  little  daughter  Jane 
Five  hundred  pounds  in  gold, 

To  be  paid  down  on  marriage-day, 

Which  might  not  be  controlled : 

But  if  the  children  chance  to  die 
Ere  they  to  age  should  come, 

Their  uncle  should  possess  their  wealth, 
For  so  the  will  did  run. 

“Now,  brother,”  said  the  dying  man, 
'‘Look  to  my  children  dear ; 

Be  good  unto  my  boy  and  girl, 

No  friends  else  I have  here : 

To  God  and  you  I do  commend 
My  children,  night  and  day ; 

But  little  while,  be  sure,  we  have, 

Within  this  world  to  stay. 

You  must  be  father  and  mother  both, 

And  uncle,  all  in  one ; 

God  knows  what  will  become  of  them 
When  I am  dead  and  gone.” 


154 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


"With  that  bespake  their  mother  dear, 

“ O brother  kind,”  quoth  she, 

“ You  are  the  man  must  bring  our  babes 
To  wealth  or  misery. 

And  if  you  keep  them  carefully, 

Then  God  will  you  reward ; 

If  otherwise  you  seem  to  deal, 

God  will  your  deeds  regard.” 

With  lips  as  cold  as  any  stone, 

She  kissed  her  children  small : 

“ God  bless  you  both,  my  children  dear,” 
With  that  the  tears  did  fall. 

These  speeches  then  their  brother  spake 
To  this  sick  couple  there : 

“ The  keeping  of  your  children  dear, 

Sweet  sister  do  not  fear ; 

God  never  prosper  me  nor  mine, 

Nor  aught  else  that  I have, 

If  I do  wrong  your  children  dear, 

When  you  are  laid  in  grave.” 

Their  parents  being  dead  and  gone, 

The  children  home  he  takes, 

And  brings  them  home  unto  his  house, 
And  much  of  them  he  makes. 

He  had  not  kept  these  pretty  babes 
A twelvemonth  and  a day, 

But,  for  their  wealth,  he  did  devise 
To  make  them  both  away. 

He  bargained  with  two  ruffians  strong, 
Which  were  of  furious  mood, 

That  they  should  take  these  children  young, 
And  slay  them  in  a wood. 

He  told  his  wife,  and  all  he  had, 

He  did  the  children  send 
To  he  brought  up  in  fair  London, 

With  one  that  was  his  friend. 

Away  then  went  these  pretty  babes, 
Rejoicing  at  that  tide, 

Rejoicing  with  a merry  mind, 

They  should  on  cock-horse  ride. 

They  prate  and  prattle  pleasantly, 

As  they  rode  on  the  way, 

To  those  that  should  their  butchers  be, 
And  work  their  lives1  decay. 


So  that  the  pretty  speech  they  had, 

Made  Murder’s  heart  relent ; 

And  they  that  undertook  the  deed 
Full  sore  they  did  repent. 

Yet  one  of  them,  more  hard  of  heart, 

Did  vow  to  do  his  charge, 

Because  the  wretch  that  hired  him 
Had  paid  him  very  large. 

The  other  would  not  agree  thereto, 

So  here  they  fell  at  strife ; 

With  one  another  they  did  fight, 

About  the  children’s  life : 

And  he  that  was  of  mildest  mood, 

Did  slay  the  other  there, 

Within  an  unfrequented  wood ; 

While  babes  did  quake  for  fear. 

He  took  the  children  by  the  hand 
When  tears  stood  in  their  eye, 

And  bade  them  come  and  go  with  him, 

And  look  they  did  not  cry : 

And  two  long  miles  he  led  them  on, 

While  they  for  food  complain : 

“ Stay  here,”  quoth  he,  “ I ’ll  bring  you  bread, 
When  I do  come  again.” 

These  pretty  babes,  with  hand  in  hand, 

Went  wandering  up  and  down ; 

But  never  more  they  saw  the  man, 
Approaching  from  the  town. 

Their  pretty  lips,  with  black-berries, 

Were  all  besmeared  and  dyed, 

And,  when  they  saw  the  darksome  night, 
They  sate  them  down  and  cried. 

Thus  wandered  these  two  pretty  babes, 

Till  death  did  end  their  grief ; 

In  one  another’s  arms  they  died, 

As  babes  wanting  relief. 

No  burial  these  pretty  babes 
Of  any  man  receives, 

Till  robin-red-breast,  painfully, 

Did  cover  them  with  leaves. 

And  now  the  heavy  wrath  of  God 
Upon  their  uncle  fell ; 

Yea,  fearful  fiends  did  haunt  his  house, 

His  conscience  felt  an  hell. 


LADY  ANN  BOTHWELL’S  LAMENT. 


155 


His  barns  were  fired,  his  goods  consumed, 
His  lands  were  barren  made ; 

His  cattle  died  within  the  field, 

And  nothing  with  him  stayed. 

And,  in  the  voyage  of  Portugal, 

Two  of  his  sons  did  die ; 

And,  to  conclude,  himself  was  brought 
To  extreme  misery. 

He  pawned  and  mortgaged  all  his  land 
Ere  seven  years  came  about : 

And  now,  at  length,  this  wicked  act 
Did  by  this  means  come  out : 

The  fellow  that  did  take  in  hand 
These  children  for  to  kill, 

Was  for  a robbery  judged  to  die, 

As  was  God’s  blessed  will ; 

Who  did  confess  the  very  truth, 

The  which  is  here  expressed : 

Their  uncle  died  while  he,  for  debt, 

In  prison  long  did  rest. 

You  that  executors  be  made, 

And  overseers  eke ; 

Of  children  that  be  fatherless, 

And  infants  mild  and  meek, 

Take  you  example  by  this  thing, 

And  yield  to  each  his  right, 

Lest  God,  with  such  like  misery, 

Your  wicked  minds  requite. 

Anonymous. 


LADY  ANN  BOTHWELL’S  LAMENT. 

A 8COTTI8H  SONG. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe ! 

It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe  ; 

If  thou’st  be  silent,  I’se  be  glad, 

Thy  maining  maks  my  heart  ful  sad. 
Balow,  my  boy,  thy  mither’s  joy ! 

Thy  father  breides  me  great  annoy. 

Balow , my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe . 

When  he  began  to  court  my  luve, 

And  with  his  sugred  words  to  muve, 

His  faynings  fals,  and  flattering  cheire, 

To  me  that  time  did  not  appeiro  : 


But  now  I see,  most  cruell  hee 
Cares  neither  for  my  babe  nor  mee. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Ly  stil,  my  darlinge,  sleipe  awhile, 

And  when  thou  wakest  sweitly  smile  : 
But  smile  not,  as  thy  father  did, 

To  cozen  maids ; nay,  God  forbid ! 

But  yette  I feire,  thou  wilt  gae  neire, 

Thy  fatheris  hart  and  face  to  beire. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

I cannae  chuse,  but  ever  will 
Be  luving  to  thy  father  stil : 

Whair-eir  he  gae,  whair-eir  he  ryde, 

My  luve  with  him  maun  stil  abyde  : 

In  weil  or  wae,  whar-eir  he  gae, 

Mine  hart  can  neir  depart  him  frae. 

Balow , my  babe , ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

But  doe  not,  doe  not  prettie  mine, 

To  faynings  fals  thine  hart  incline  : 

Be  loyal  to  thy  luver  trew, 

And  nevir  change  hir  for  a new  : 

If  gude  or  faire,  of  hir  have  care, 

For  women’s  banning ’s  wonderous  sair. 
Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Bairne,  sin  thy  cruel  father  is  gane, 

Thy  winsome  smiles  maun  eise  my  paine ; 
My  babe  and  I ’ll  together  live, 

He  ’ll  comfort  me  when  cares  doe  grieve : 
My  babe  and  I right  saft  will  ly, 

And  quite  forget  man’s  cruelty. 

Balow,  my  babe,  ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Fare  weil,  fare  weil,  thou  falsest  youth 
That  ever  kist  a woman’s  mouth ! 

I wish  all  maids  be  warned  by  mee, 

Nevir  to  trust  man’s  curtesy  ; 

For  if  we  doe  but  chance  to  bow, 

They  ’ll  use  us  than  they  care  not  how. 
Balow,  my  babe , ly  stil  and  sleipe  ! 
It  grieves  me  sair  to  see  thee  weipe. 

Anonymous. 


156 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


DANAE. 

Whilst,  around  her  lone  ark  sweeping, 
Wailed  the  winds  and  waters  wild, 

Her  young  cheeks  all  wan  with  weeping, 
Daniie  clasped  her  sleeping  child ; 

And  “Alas,”  (cried  she,)  “my  dearest, 
What  deep  wrongs,  what  woes,  are  mine ! 
But  nor  wrongs  nor  woes  thou  fearest, 

In  that  sinless  rest  of  thine. 

Faint  the  moonbeams  break  above  thee. 

And,  within  here,  all  is  gloom  ; 

But  fast  wrapt  in  arms  that  love  thee, 

Little  reck’st  thou  of  our  doom. 

Hot  the  rude  spray  round  thee  flying, 

Has  e’en  damped  thy  clustering  hair, — 

On  thy  purple  mantlet  lying, 

O mine  Innocent,  my  Fair ! 

Yet,  to  thee  were  sorrow  sorrow, 

Thou  would’st  lend  thy  little  ear, 

! And  this  heart  of  thine  might  borrow’ 

Haply  yet  a moment’s  cheer. 

But  no  ; slumber  on,  Babe,  slumber ; 

Slumber,  Ocean-waves ; and  you, 

My  dark  troubles,  without  number, — 

O,  that  ye  would  slumber  too ! 

Though  with  wrongs  they’ve  brimmed  my 
chalice, 

Grant  Jove,  that,  in  future  years, 

This  boy  may  defeat  their  malice, 

And  avenge  his  mother’s  tears.” 

Simonides.  (Greek.) 

Translation  of  William  Petee. 


BOYHOOD. 

Ah,  then  how  sweetly  closed  those  crowded 
days! 

The  minutes  parting  one  by  one  like  rays, 
That  fade  upon  a summer’s  eve. 

But  oh ! what  charm,  or  magic  numbers 
Can  give  me  back  the  gentle  slumbers 
Those  weary,  happy  days  did  leave  ? 

When  by  my  bed  I saw  my  mother  kneel, 
And  with  her  blessing  took  her  nightly  kiss ; 
Whatever  Time  destroys,  he  cannot  this — 
E’en  now  that  nameless  kiss  I feel. 

Washington  Allston. 


HER  EYES  ARE  WILD. 

i. 

Her  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare, 
The  sun  has  burnt  her  coal-black  hair ; 
Her  eyebrows  have  a rusty  stain, 

And  she  came  far  from  over  the  main. 
She  had  a baby  on  her  arm, 

Or  else  she  were  alone ; 

And  underneath  the  hay-stack  warm, 
And  on  the  greenwood  stone, 

She  talked  and  sung  the  woods  among, 
And  it  was  in  the  English  tongue. 

ii. 

“ Sweet  babe ! they  say  that  I am  mad  ; 
But  nay,  my  heart  is  far  too  glad ; 

And  I am  happy  when  I sing 
Full  many  a sad  and  doleful  thing. 
Then,  lovely  baby,  do  not  fear ! 

I pray  thee  have  no  fear  of  me ; 

But  safe  as  in  a cradle,  here, 

My  lovely  baby ! thou  shalt  be. 

To  thee  I know  too  much  I owe ; 

I cannot  work  thee  any  woe. 

in. 

“ A fire  was  once  within  my  brain, 

And  in  my  head  a dull,  dull  pain ; 

And  fiendish  faces,  one,  two,  three, 
Hung  at  my  breast,  and  pulled  at  me. 
But  then  there  came  a sight  of  joy; 

It  came  at  once  to  do  me  good : 

I waked,  and  saw  my  little  boy, 

My  little  boy  of  flesh  and  blood ; 

0 joy  for  me  that  sight  to  see ! 

For  he  was  here,  and  only  he. 

IV. 

“ Suck,  little  babe,  O suck  again ! 

It  cools  my  blood ; it  cools  my  brain ; 
Thy  lips,  I feel  them,  baby ! they 
Draw  from  my  heart  the  pain  away. 

0 press  me  with  thy  little  hand  ! 

It  loosens  something  at  my  chest ; 

About  that  tight  and  deadly  band 

1 feel  thy  little  fingers  prest. 

The  breeze  I see  is  in  the  tree — 

It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me. 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 


157 


y. 

“O  love  me,  love  me,  little  boy ! 

Thou  art  thy  mother’s  only  joy ; 

And  do  not  dread  the  waves  below, 
When  o’er  the  sea-rock’s  edge  we  go ; 
The  high  crag  cannot  work  me  harm, 
Nor  leaping  torrents  when  they  howl ; 
The  babe  I carry  on  my  arm, 

He  saves  for  me  my  precious  soul ; 

Then  happy  lie ; for  blest  am  I ; 
Without  me  my  sweet  babe  would  die. 

VI. 

“ Then  do  not  fear,  my  boy ! for  thee 
Bold  as  a lion  will  I be ; 

And  I will  always  be  thy  guide, 
Through  hollow  snows  and  rivers  wide. 
I ’ll  build  an  Indian  bower ; I know 
The  leaves  that  make  the  softest  bed ; 
And,  if  from  me  thou  wilt  not  go, 

But  still  be  true  till  I am  dead, 

My  pretty  thing ! then  thou  shalt  sing 
As  merry  as  the  birds  in  Spring. 

VII. 

“ Thy  father  cares  not  for  my  breast, 

’T  is  thine,  sweet  baby,  there  to  rest ; 

’T  is  all  thine  own ! — and  if  its  hue 
Be  changed,  that  was  so  fair  to  view, 

’T  is  fair  enough  for  thee,  my  dove ! 

My  beauty,  little  child,  is  flown, 

But  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  love ; 
And  what  if  my  poor  cheek  be  brown  ? 
’T  is  well  for  me  thou  canst  not  see 
How  pale  and  wan  it  else  would  be. 

VIII. 

“ Dread  not  their  taunts,  my  little  Life ; 
I am  thy  father’s  wedded  wife ; 

And  underneath  the  spreading  tree 
We  two  will  live  in  honesty. 

If  his  sweet  boy  he  could  forsake, 

With  me  he  never  would  have  stayed. 
From  him  no  harm  my  babe  can  take ; 
But  he,  poor  man,  is  wretched  made ; 
And  every  day  we  two  will  pray 
For  him  that ’s  gone  and  far  away. 


IX. 

“ I ’ll  teach  my  boy  the  sweetest  things : 

I ’ll  teach  him  how  the  owlet  sings. 

My  little  babe ! thy  lips  are  still, 

And  thou  hast  almost  sucked  thy  fill. 

— Where  art  thou  gone,  my  own  dear  child? 
What  wicked  looks  are  those  I see  ? 

Alas ! alas ! that  look  so  wild, 

It  never,  never  came  from  me. 

If  thou  art  mad,  my  pretty  lad, 

Then  I must  be  for  ever  sad. 

x. 

“ 0 smile  on  me,  my  little  lamb  ! 

For  I thy  own  dear  mother  am. 

My  love  for  thee  has  well  been  tried : 

I ’ve  sought  thy  father  far  and  wide. 

I know  the  poisons  of  the  shade ; 

I know  the  earth-nuts  fit  for  food. 

Then,  pretty  dear,  be  not  afraid ; 

We  ’ll  find  thy  father  in  the  wood. 

Now  laugh  and  be  gay,  to  the  woods  away ! 
And  there,  my  babe,  we  ’ll  live  for  aye.” 
William  Wordsworth. 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 

“Why  would’st  thou  leave  me,  0 gentle 
child? 

Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild — 

A straw-roofed  cabin,  with  lowly  wall ; 

Mine  is  a fair  and  pillared  hall, 

Where  many  an  image  of  marble  gleams, 

And  the  sunshine  of  pictures  for  ever  streams.” 

“ Oh ! green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers 

Play, 

Through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the  sum 
mer’s  day ; 

They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 

And  they  chase  the  bee  o’er  the  scented 
thyme, 

And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms 
they  know : 

Lady,  kind  lady ! 0,  let  me  go.” 

“ Content  thee,  boy ! in  my  bower  to  dwell ; 

Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovesl 
well : 


158 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon, 

Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune, 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  a bird 
Whose  voice  was  ne’er  in  thy  mountain 
heard.” 

“ Oh ! my  mother  sings  at  the  twilight’s  fall, 
A song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all ; 
She  sings  it  under  our  own  green  tree 
To  the  babe  half  slumbering  on  her  knee ; 

I dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low— 

Lady,  kind  lady ! O,  let  me  go.” 

“ Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest ; 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast ; 
Thou  would’st  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy,  no 
more, 

Nor  heai  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 

Come  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh, 
And  we’ll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest 
dye.” 

“ Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away? — 
But  I know  that  my  brothers  are  there  at 
play— 

I know  they  are  gathering  the  fox-glove’s 
bell, 

Or  the  long  fern  leaves  by  the  sparkling  well ; 
Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright 
streams  flow — 

Lady,  kind  lady ! O,  let  me  go.” 

“Fair  child,  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now; 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain’s  brow ; 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring’s  green 
side, 

And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were 
tied. 

Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 

For  the  cabin  home  is  a lonely  spot.” 

*•  Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  sunny 
hill  ?— 

But  the  bird  and  the  blue-fly  rove  o’er  it  still; 
And  the  red-deer  bound  in  their  gladness  free, 
And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee, 
&nd  the  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow; 
Lady,  kind  lady ! 0,  let  me  go.” 

Felicia  IIemans. 


LUCY  GRAY; 

OE,  SOLITUDE. 

Oft  I had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray ; 

And,  when  I crossed  the  wild, 

I chanced  to  see,  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

Ho  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew ; 

She  dwelt  on  a wide  moor, — 

The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a human  door ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 

The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

“ To-night  will  be  a stormy  night, — 

You  to  the  town  must  go  ; 

And  take  a lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow.” 

“ That,  Father!  will  I gladly  do ; 

’T  is  scarcely  afternoon, — 

The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  two, 
And  yonder  is  the  moon ! ” 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 

And  snapped  a faggot-band. 

He  plied  his  work  ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Hot  blither  is  the  mountain  roe — 

With  many  a wanton  stroke 

Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 

That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time ; 

She  wandered  up  and  down ; 

And  many  a hill  did  Lucy  climb, 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide ; 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a guide. 

At  daybreak  on  the  hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  moor ; 

And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood, 
A furlong  from  their  door. 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER.  159 


They  wept, — and,  turning  homeward,  cried, 
“In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet; ” — 

When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy’s  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill’s  edge 
They  tracked  the  footmarks  small ; 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn-hedge, 
And  by  the  low  stone-wall ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed — 

The  marks  were  still  the  same : 

They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 

And  further  there  were  none ! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a living  child ; 

That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O’er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind ; 

And  sings  a solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

William  Wordsworth. 


CHILDHOOD. 

In  my  poor  mind  it  is  most  sweet  to  muse 
Upon  the  days  gone  by ; to  act  in  thought 
Past  seasons  o’er,  and  be  again  a child ; 

To  sit  in  fancy  on  the  turf-clad  slope 
Down  which  the  child  would  roll ; to  pluck 
gay  flowers, 

I Make  posies  in  the  sun,  which  the  child’s 
hand 

(Childhood  offended  soon,  soon  reconciled,) 
Would  throw  away,  and  straight  take  up 
again, 

Then  fling  them  to  the  winds,  and  o’er  the 
lawn 

Bound  with  so  playful  and  so  light  a foot, 
That  the  pressed  daisy  scarce  declined  her 
head. 

Charles  Lamb. 


UNDER  MY  WINDOW. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

All  in  the  Midsummer  weather, 

Three  little  girls  with  fluttering  curls 
Flit  to  and  fro  together : — 

There’s  Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen. 
And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  her  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 
Leaning  stealthily  over, 

Merry  and  clear,  the  voice  I hear 
Of  each  glad-hearted  rover. 

Ah ! sly  little  Kate,  she  steals  my  roses ; 
And  Maud  and  Bell  twine  wreaths  and  posies, 
As  merry  as  bees  in  clover. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

In  the  blue  Midsummer  weather, 

Stealing  slow,  on  a hushed  tip-toe, 

I catch  them  all  together : — 

Bell  with  her  bonnet  of  satin  sheen, 

And  Maud  with  her  mantle  of  silver-green, 
And  Kate  with  the  scarlet  feather. 

Under  my  window,  under  my  window, 

And  off  through  the  orchard  closes ; 

While  Maud  she  flouts,  and  Bell  she  pouts, 
They  scamper  and  drop  their  posies ; 

But  dear  little  Kate  takes  nought  amiss, 

And  leaps  in  my  arms  with  a loving  kiss, 
And  I give  her  all  my  roses. 

T.  Westwood. 


I REMEMBER,  I REMEMBER. 

I remember,  I remember 
The  house  where  I was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 
Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 

He  never  came  a wink  too  soon, 
Nor  brought  too  long  a day ; 

But  now,  I often  wish  the  night 
Had  borne  my  breath  away  ! 

I remember,  I remember 
The  roses,  red  and  white, 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups — 
Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 


160 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day, — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I remember,  I remember 
Where  I was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 
To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 
The  fever  on  my  brow ! 

I remember,  I remember 
The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky. 

It  was  a childish  ignorance, 

But  now ’t  is  little  joy 

To  know  I ’m  farther  off  from  heaven 

Than  when  I was  a boy. 

Thomas  Hood. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

• A simple  child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath, 

And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb, 

What  should  it  know  of  death  ? 

I met  a little  cottage  girl : 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said  ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad ; 

Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; — 

Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

“ Sisters  and  brothers,  little  maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  ? ” 

“ How  many  ? Seven  in  all,”  she  said, 
And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

“ And  where  are  they  ? I pray  you  tell.” 
She  answered,  “ Seven  are  we ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 


“ Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

My  sister  and  my  brother ; 

And,  in  the  churchyard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother.” 

“You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell, 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea, 

Yet  ye  are  seven ! I pray  you  tell, 

Sweet  maid,  how  this  may  be.” 

Then  did  the  little  maid  reply, 

“Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we ; 

Two  of  us  in  the  churchyard  lie, 

Beneath  the  churchyard  tree.” 

“ You  run  about,  my  little  maid ; 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive ; 

If  two  are  in  the  churchyard  laid, 

Then  ye  are  only  five.” 

“Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen,” 
The  little  maid  replied, 

“ Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother’s  door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 

“My  stockings  there  I often  knit, 

My  kerchief  there  I hem  ; 

And  there  upon  the  ground  I sit, 

And  sing  a song  to  them. 

“And  often  after  sunset,  sir, 

When  it  is  light  and  fair, 

I take  my  little  porringer, 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

“ The  first  that  died  was  sister  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay, 

Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

“ So  in  the  churchyard  she  was  laid ; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry, 

Together  round  her  grave  we  played, 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

“ And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow, 
And  I could  run  and  slide, 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go, 

And  he  lies  by  her  side.” 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MOURNERS. 


161 


“How  many  are  you,  then,”  said  I, 

“ If  they  two  are  in  heaven  ? ” 

Quick  was  the  little  maid’s  reply, 

“ 0 Master ! we  are  seven.” 

“But  they  are  dead ; those  two  are  dead ! 

Their  spirits  are  in  heaven ! ” — 

’T  was  throwing  words  away ; for  still 
The  little  maid  would  have  her  will, 

And  said,  “Hay,  we  are  seven ! ” 

"William  "Wordsworth. 


ANNIE  IN  THE  GRAVEYARD. 

She  hounded  o’er  the  graves, 

With  a buoyant  step  of  mirth ; 

She  bounded  o’er  the  graves, 

Where  the  weeping  willow  waves, 
Like  a creature  not  of  earth. 

Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  eyes  were  glittering  bright ; 
Her  hair  was  blown  aside, 

And  her  little  hands  spread  wide, 

With  an  innocent  delight. 

She  spelt  the  lettered  word 
That  registers  the  dead ; 

She  spelt  the  lettered  word, 

And  her  busy  thoughts  were  stirred 
With  pleasure  as  she  read. 

She  stopped  and  culled  a leaf 
Left  fluttering  on  a rose ; 

She  stopped  and  culled  a leaf, 

Sweet  monument  of  grief, 

That  in  our  churchyard  grows. 

She  culled  it  with  a smile — 

’T  was  near  her  sister’s  mound; 

She  culled  it  with  a smile, 

And  played  with  it  awhile, 

Then  scattered  it  around. 

I did  not  chill  her  heart, 

Nor  turn  its  gush  to  tears ; 

I did  not  chill  her  heart — 

Oh,  bitter  drops  will  start 
Full  soon  in  coming  years. 

Caroline  Gilman. 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  MOURNERS. 

A little  child,  beneath  a tree, 

Sat  and  chanted  cheerily 
A little  song,  a pleasant  song, 

Which  was — she  sang  it  all  day  long — 

“ When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall 
But  a good  God  reigns  over  all.” 

There  passed  a lady  by  the  way, 

Moaning  in  the  face  of  day : 

There  were  tears  upon  her  cheek, 

Grief  in  her  heart  too  great  to  speak; 

Her  husband  died  but  yester-morn, 

And  left  her  in  the  world  forlorn. 

She  stopped  and  listened  to  the  child 
That  looked  to  heaven,  and  singing,  smiled 
And  saw  not,  for  her  own  despair, 
Another  lady,  young  and  fair, 

Who  also  passing,  stopped  to  hear 
The  infant’s  anthem  ringing  clear. 

For  she  but  few  sad  days  before 
Had  lost  the  little  babe  she  bore ; 

And  grief  was  heavy  at  her  soul 
As  that  sweet  memory  o’er  her  stole, 

Amd  showed  how  bright  had  been  the  past 
The  present  drear  and  overcast. 

And  as  they  stood  beneath  the  tree 
Listening,  soothed  and  placidly, 

A youth  came  by,  whose  sunken  eyes 
Spake  of  a load  of  miseries ; 

And  he,  arrested  like  the  twain, 

Stopped  to  listen  to  the  strain. 

Death  had  bowed  the  youthful  head 
Of  his  bride  beloved,  his  bride  unwed . 
Her  marriage  robes  were  fitted  on, 

Her  fair  young  face  with  blushes  shone, 
When  the  destroyer  smote  her  low, 

And  changed  the  lover’s  bliss  to  woe. 

And  these  three  listened  to  the  song, 
Silver-toned,  and  sweet,  and  strong, 

Which  that  child,  the  livelong  day, 
Chanted  to  itself  in  play  : 

“ When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall, 
But  a good  God  reigns  over  all.” 


11 


162 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


The  widow’s  lips  impulsive  moved ; 

The  mother’s  grief,  though  unreproved. 
Softened,  as  her  trembling  tongue 
Repeated  what  the  infant  sung ; 

And  the  sad  lover,  with  a start, 

Conned  it  over  to  his  heart. 

And  though  the  child — if  child  it  were, 
Ajid  not  a seraph  sitting  there — 

"Was  seen  no  more,  the  sorrowing  three 
Went  on  their  way  resignedly, 

The  song  still  ringing  in  their  ears — 

Was  it  music  of  the  spheres  ? 

Who  shall  tell  ? They  did  not  know. 

But  in  the  midst  of  deepest  woe 
The  strain  recurred,  when  sorrow  grew, 
To  warn  them,  and  console  them  too : 
“When  the  wind  blows  the  blossoms  fall, 
But  a good  God  reigns  over  all.” 

Charles  Mackay. 


THE  LITTLE  BLACK  BOY. 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I am  black ; but,  O,  my  soul  is  white ! 
White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 

But  I am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a tree ; 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 

She  took  me  on  her  lap,  and  kissed  me, 

And,  pointing  to  the  east,  began  to  say : 

“Look  on  the  rising  sun;  there  God  does 
live, 

And  gives  his  light,  and  gives  his  heat  away ; 
And  flowers,  and  trees,  and  beasts,  and  men, 
receive 

Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

“ And  we  are  put  on  earth  a little  space, 
That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love, 
And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt 
face 

Are  but  a cloud,  and  like  a shady  grove. 


“For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat 
to  bear, 

The  clouds  will  vanish;  we  shall  hear  His 
voice, 

Saying,  1 Come  from  the  grove,  my  love  and 
care, 

And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  re- 
joice.’ ” 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me, 

And  thus  I say  to  little  English  boy : 

When  I from  black,  and  he  from  white 
cloud  free, 

And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy, 

I ’ll  shade  him  from  the  heat,  till  he  can  bear 

To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father’s  knee ; 

Amd  then  I ’ll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 

And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 

William  Blake. 


THE  CHIMHEY  SWEEPER. 

When  my  mother  died,  I was  very  young ; 

And  my  father  sold  me,  while  yet  my  tongue 

Could  scarcely  cry,  “weep!  weep!  weep! 
weep ! 

So  your  chimneys  I sweep,  and  in  soot  I 
sleep. 

There’s  little  Tom  Dacre,  who  cried  when 
his  head, 

That  curled  like  a lamb’s  back,  was  shaved ; 
so  I said, 

Hush,  Tom!  never  mind  it,  for  when  your 
head’s  bare, 

You  know  that  the  soot  cannot  spoil  your 
white  hair. 

And  so  he  was  quiet,  and  that  very  night, 

As  Tom  was  a sleeping,  he  had  such  a sight — 

That  thousands  of  sweepers,  Dick,  Joe,  Hed, 
and  Jack, 

Were  all  of  them  locked  up  in  coffins  of 
black. 

And  by  came  an  angel  who  had  a bright  key, 

And  he  opened  the  coffins,  and  set  them  all 
free : 


Jfij.  owfydhj  'Hot  haJf.  so  w-  %tasrt/K  , 

-,,  Jlfyvbt  e/vuv-t^wv^  oyyicL  "MA-  — - 

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Tfat  &SL  *™suL  LWUL^&vJt  of  &l  clowL  nnsi^LL  , 
o^cL  ItsllMQ  Tny  jbvLrtMLtL  Jxo  , 


JlwJt  ova.  lov<,  Jr  uraA  rtzovi'jj&i,  try  JAuma,  Mu,  IcrtK 

Qf  tturtL  ‘wA O Ut&UL  ' oidsA.  IAm/VL  Cut  l 

Qf  yvuwsy  f0^  (ArtAZA,  bfiuxsrt^  CM  

cAvui  ruu-tfuA  t&L  owi'gjU*  4*t  J&mwwl,  aJnrvZj 
effln,  iAsl  trUrvuyvU  (Lcruuv^  U/yuJjA>  tAa.  Strf^ 
toasyi  * tw/ir  cU&^wmsl,  SoruJL  fsurrr^  ^Aj.  scrub 

Of  tfuL  l^cu^JXfuZ  <Anm ,cl/><Z  Jjjl  :,_>T 

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Of  i&JL  kxuulifuJZ  Jhvyvasbl  JUju  , 
lAvi^r  rfu  ft&AA  lASA/e/i,  4M>L , but  J fj&JL  &jl  biA^hk  Zyu 

Of  "tfats  c JhtMfiJytZ  JjUL  , 

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X htsu  fcrYY{^(r  try  /Pul  Sown, Jymq_^  ftct, . 


xp 


V 


ariou  s 


ana- 


tions  Assigned  for 
the  Omission  of 


His  Name  from 


the  Role  of  Amer- 


ica s 


Great  Ones. 


Into  the  charnel  Hall  of  Fame 
None  but  the  dead  shall  so; 

Then  carve  not  there  the  living  name 
Of  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 

Father  John  Tabb. 


WHAT  stands  between  Poe  and 
the  Hall  of  Fame — Poe, 
whose  fame  every  Ameri- 
can schoolboy  knows;  Poe, 
who  is  known  and  read  in  foreign 


they  not  put  his  weaknesses  above  his 
strength?  To  the  day  of  his  death  Mr. 
Stedman  demanded  some  means  of 
submitting  his  own  views  to  these  and 
other  electors. 

Poe’s  name  was  submitted  to  the 
electors  in  both  of  the  elections  so  far 
held,  the  first  in  1900  and  the  second 
in  1905.  An  analysis  of  the  vote  in 
1900  shows  that  he  received  nine  votes 
from  the  twenty-five  college  Presi- 
dents, seven  from  the  twenty-six  sci- 
entists and  professors  of  history, 
twelve  from  twenty-three  publicists, 
editors  and  authors,  and  ten  from  the 
twenty-three  Chief  Justices:  a total  of 
thirty-eight  from  the  ninety-seven 
electors  voting.  • 

In  the  second  election  five  years  later 
s voted  for 


m 


ELECTORS 


w H Oi , y 

(■Ohpu: 

!’AC(;  > 


HALL  OF  FAME  AN  DA  FEW  OF  ITS  TABL 


TALL  OF  FAME 


OF  THE 


'Annabel  Lee  -"In  tbe 


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J \vUU  crjr  of  a,  dcr^Lj  C&Jlwfc 

i/'h  UcuJxfrul  JrUAiaid  elk.  ) 

Jl  tUi  t*A.  tu^k-Lw-  CMTAJL 

JkuL  Uvl  tw-  CWOOU  florrro  MJL> , 

So  .J'bvU  hw.  ujv  m-  o-  t j 

Jk  fiSi  lUn^cLm^  fry  m.  Sttb  . 


LITTLE  BELL. 


Then  down  a green  plain,  leaping,  laughing, 
they  run, 

And  wash  in  a river,  and  shine  in  the  sun. 

Then  naked  and  white,  all  their  hags  left 
behind, 

They  rise  upon  clouds,  and  sport  in  the  wind ; 

And  the  angel  told  Tom,  if  he ’d  be  a good 
toy, 

He’d  have  God  for  his  Father,  and  never 
want  joy. 

And  so  Tom  awoke,  and  we  rose  in  the  dark, 

And  got  with  our  bags  and  our  brushes  to 
work ; 

Tho’  the  morning  was  cold,  Tom  was  happy 
and  warm, 

So  if  all  do  their  duty  they  need  not  fear 
harm. 

William  Blake. 


LITTLE  BELL. 

He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

Ancient  Mabiner. 

Piped  the  blackbird  on  the  beech  wood  spray : 
“ Pretty  maid,  slow  wandering  this  way, 
What’s  your  name  ?”  quoth  he — 

“What’s  your  name?  O stop  and  straight 
unfold, 

Pretty  maid  with  showery  curls  of  gold,” — 

“ Little  Bell,”  said  she. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  beneath  the  rocks — 
Tossed  aside  her  gleaming  golden  locks — 

“ Bonny  bird,”  quoth  she, 

“ Sing  me  your  best  song  before  I go.” 

“ Here’s  the  very  finest  song  I know, 

Little  Bell,”  said  he. 

And  the  blackbird  piped ; you  never  heard 
Half  so  gay  a song  from  any  bird — 

Full  of  quips  and  wiles, 

Now  so  round  and  rich,  now  soft  and  slow, 
All  for  love  of  that  sweet  face  below, 

Dimpled  o’er  with  smiles. 


163 

And  the  while  the  bonny  bird  did  pour 
His  full  heart  out  freely  o’er  and  o’er 
’Neath  the  morning  skies, 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below 
All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 
And  shine  forth  in  happy  overflow 
From  the  blue,  bright  eyes. 

Down  the  dell  she  tripped  and  through  the 
glade, 

Peeped  the  squirrel  from  the  hazel  shade, 
And  from  out  the  tree 

Swung,  and  leaped,  and  frolicked,  void  of 
fear — 

While  bold  blackbird  piped  that  all  might 
hear — 

“ Little  Bell ! ” piped  he. 

Little  Bell  sat  down  amid  the  fern — 

“ Squirrel,  squirrel,  to  your  task  return — 
Bring  me  nuts,”  quoth  she. 

Up,  away  the  frisky  squirrel  hies — 

Golden  wood-lights  glancing  in  his  eyes — 
And  adown  the  tree, 

Great  ripe  nuts,  kissed  brown  by  July  sun, 

In  the  little  lap,  dropped  one  by  one — 

Hark,  how  blackbird  pipes  to  see  the  fun ! 

“ Happy  Bell ! ” pipes  he. 

Little  Bell  looked  up  and  down  the  glade — 
“Squirrel,  squirrel,  if  you’re  not  afraid, 
Come  and  share  with  me ! ” 

Down  came  squirrel  eager  for  his  fare — 
Down  came  bonny  blackbird  I declare ; 

Little  Bell  gave  each  his  honest  share — 

Ah  the  merry  three ! 

And  the  while  these  frolic  playmates  twain 
Piped  and  frisked  from  bough  to  bough 
again, 

’Neath  the  morning  skies, 

In  the  little  childish  heart  below 

All  the  sweetness  seemed  to  grow  and  grow, 

And  shine  out  in  happy  overflow, 

From  her  blue,  bright  eyes. 

By  her  snow-white  cot  at  close  of  day, 

Knelt  sweet  Bell,  with  folded  palms  to  pray— 
Very  calm  and  clear 

Rose  the  praying  voice  to  where,  unseen, 

In  blue  heaven,  an  angel  shape  serene 
Paused  awhile  to  hear — 


164 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


“ What  good  child  is  this,”  the  angel  said, 

“ That  with  happy  heart,  beside  her  bed 
Prays  so  lovingly  ? ” 

Low  and  soft,  oh ! very  low  and  soft, 
Crooned  the  blackbird  in  the  orchard  croft, 

“ Bell,  dear  Bell ! ” crooned  he. 

“ Whom  God’s  creatures  love,”  the  angel  fair 
Murmured,  “God  doth  bless  with  angels’ 
care ; 

Child,  thy  bed  shall  be 
Folded  safe  from  harm — Love  deep  and  kind, 
Shall  watch  around  and  leave  good  gifts  be- 
hind, 

Little  Bell,  for  thee.” 

T.  Westwood. 


BALLAD  OF  THE  TEMPEST. 

We  were  crowded  in  the  cabin, 

Mot  a soul  would  dare  to  sleep, — 

It  was  midnight  on  the  waters 
And  a storm  was  on  the  deep. 

’T  is  a fearful  thing  in  Winter 
To  be  shattered  by  the  blast, 

And  to  hear  the  rattling  trumpet 
Thunder,  “ Cut  away  the  mast ! ” 

So  we  shuddered  there  in  silence, — 
For  the  stoutest  held  his  breath, 

While  the  hungry  sea  was  roaring, 
And  the  breakers  talked  with  Death. 

As  thus  we  sat  in  darkness, 

Each  one  busy  in  his  prayers, 

“ We  are  lost ! ” the  captain  shouted 
As  he  staggered  down  the  stairs. 

But  his  little  daughter  whispered, 

As  she  took  his  icy  hand, 

“ Is  n’t  God  upon  the  ocean, 

Just  the  same  as  on  the  land  ? ” 

Then  we  kissed  the  little  maiden, 

And  we  spoke  in  better  cheer, 

And  we  anchored  safe  in  harbor 
When  the  morn  was  shining  clear. 

James  T.  Fields. 


A CHILD  PRAYIMG. 

Fold  thy  little  hands  in  prayer, 

Bow  down  at  thy  mother’s  knee 
Mow  thy  sunny  face  is  fair, 

Shining  through  thine  auburn  hair  ; 

Thine  eyes  are  passion-free ; 

And  pleasant  thoughts,  like  garlands,  bind  thee 
Unto  thy  home,  yet  grief  may  find  thee — 
Then  pray,  child,  pray  ! 

Mow,  thy  young  heart,  like  a bird, 

Warbles  in  its  summer  nest ; 

Mo  evil  thought,  no  unkind  word, 

Mo  chilling  autumn  winds  have  stirred 
The  beauty  of  thy  rest ; 

But  winter  hastens,  and  decay 
Shall  waste  thy  verdant  home  away — 

Then  pray,  child,  pray ! 

Thy  bosom  is  a house  of  glee, 

With  gladness  harping  at  the  door : 

While  ever,  with  a joyous  shout, 

Hope,  the  May  queen,  dances  out, 

Her  lips  with  music  running  o’er ; 

But  Time  those  strings  of  joy  will  sever, 

And  Hope  will  not  dance  on  for  ever — 

Then  pray,  child,  pray ! 

Mow,  thy  mother’s  arm  is  spread 
Beneath  thy  pillow  in  the  night ; 

And  loving  feet  creep  round  thy  bed, 

And  o’er  thy  quiet  face  is  shed 
The  taper’s  darkened  light ; 

But  that  fond  arm  will  pass  away, 

By  thee  no  more  those  feet  will  stay — 

Then  pray,  child,  pray ! 

Robebt  Abis  Wlllmott 


TO  A CHILD. 

Thy  memory,  as  a spell 
Of  love,  comes  o’er  my  mind — 
As  dew  upon  the  purple  bell — 
As  perfume  on  the  wind ; — 

As  music  on  the  sea — 

As  sunshine  on  the  river ; — 

So  hath  it  always  been  to  me, 

So  shall  it  be  for  ever. 


LUCY. 


I hear  thy  voice  in  dreams 
Upon  me  softly  call, 

Like  echoes  of  the  mountain  streams, 
In  sportive  waterfall. 

I see  thy  form  as  when 
Thou  wert  a living  thing, 

And  blossomed  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
Like  any  flower  of  Spring. 

Thy  soul  to  heaven  hath  fled, 

From  earthly  thraldom  free  ; 

Yet,  ’t  is  not  as  the  dead 
That  thou  appear’st  to  me. 

In  slumber  I behold 

Thy  form,  as  when  on  earth, 

Thy  locks  of  waving  gold, 

Thy  sapphire  eye  of  mirth. 

I hear,  in  solitude, 

The  prattle  kind  and  free 
Thou  uttered’st  in  joyful  mood 
While  seated  on  my  knee. 

So  strong  each  vision  seems 
My  spirit  that  doth  fill, 

I think  not  they  are  dreams, 

But  that  thou  livest  still. 

An  ONYMOTT8. 


LUCY. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove. 

A maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 
And  very  few  to  love : 

A violet  by  a mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye ! 

— Fair  as  a star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 

But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  0 ! 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


165 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower; 
Then  Nature  said,  “A  lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown  ; 

This  child  I to  myself  will  take  ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I will  make 
A lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse  ; and  with  me 
The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power, 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 

And  her’s  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 

And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her ; for  her  the  willow  bend : 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see, 

Even  in  the  motions  of  the  storm, 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden’s  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her ; and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I will  give 
While  she  and  I together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  dell.” 

Thus  Nature  spake. — The  work  was  done — 
How  soon  my  Lucy’s  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene ; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 


William  Wordsworth. 


166 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  DYIHG  CHILD. 

Come  closer,  closer,  dear  mamma, 

My  heart  is  filled  with  fears, 

My  eyes  are  dark, — I hear  your  sobs, 
But  cannot  see  your  tears. 

I feel  your  warm  breath  on  my  lips 
That  are  so  icy  cold ; 

Come  closer,  closer,  dear  mamma, 

Give  me  your  hand  to  hold. 

I quite  forget  my  little  hymn, 

“ How  doth  the  busy  bee,” 

"Which  every  day  I used  to  say, 

When  sitting  on  your  knee. 

Hor  can  I recollect  my  prayers ; 

And,  dear  mamma,  you  know 

That  the  great  God  will  angry  be 
If  I forget  them  too. 

And  dear  papa,  when  he  comes  home, 
O will  he  not  be  vext  ? 

“ Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread ; ” — 
What  is  it  that  comes  next  ? 

Hush,  darling ! you  are  going  to 
The  bright  and  blessed  sky, 

Where  all  God’s  holy  children  go, 

To  live  with  him  on  high. 

But  will  he  love  me,  dear  mamma, 

As  tenderly  as  you  ? 

And  will  my  own  papa,  one  day, 

Come  and  live  with  me  too  ? 

But  you  must  first  lay  me  to  sleep, 
Where  grand-papa  is  laid ; — 

Is  not  the  churchyard  cold  and  dark, 
And  sha  ’nt  I feel  afraid  ? 

And  will  you  every  evening  come, 

And  say  my  pretty  prayer 

Over  poor  Lucy’s  little  grave, 

And  see  that  no  one ’s  there  ? 


And  promise  me  that  when  you  die, 
That  they  your  grave  shall  make 

Next  unto  mine,  that  I may  be 
Close  to  you  when  I wake  ? 

Hay  do  not  leave  me  dear  mamma, 

Your  watch  beside  me  keep ; 

My  heart  feels  cold — the  room’s  all  dark 
How  lay  me  down  to  sleep : — 

And  should  I sleep  to  wake  no  more, 
Dear,  dear  mamma,  good-bye : 

Poor  nurse  is  kind ; but  oh ! do  you 
Be  with  me  when  I die ! 

Geobge  Williams  Fttlchee. 


OH  THE  DEATH  OF  AH  IHFAHT. 

A host  of  angels  flying, 

Through  cloudless  skies  impelled. 
Upon  the  earth  beheld 
A pearl  of  beauty  lying, 

Worthy  to  glitter  bright 
In  Heaven’s  vast  halls  of  light. 

They  saw  with  glances  tender, 

An  infant  newly  born, 

O’er  whom  life’s  earliest  morn 
Just  cast  its  opening  splendor: 
Virtue  it  could  not  know, 

Hor  vice,  nor  joy,  nor  woe. 

The  blest  angelic  legion 
Greeted  its  birth  above, 

And  came,  with  looks  of  love, 
From  heaven’s  enchanting  region; 
Bending  their  winged  way 
To  where  the  infant  lay. 

They  spread  their  pinions  o’er  it, — 
That  little  pearl  which  shone 
With  lustre  all  its  own, — 

And  then  on  high  they  bore  it, 
Where  glory  has  its  birth ; — 

But  left  the  shell  on  earth. 

Disk  Smits  (Dutch) 
Translation  of  H.  S.  Van  Dtk. 


MY  PLAYMATES. 


167 


MY  PLAYMATES. 

I once  had  a sister,  O fair  ’mid  the  fair ! 

With  a "face  that  looked  out  from  its  soft 
golden  hair, 

Like  a lily  some  tall  stately  angel  may  hold, 

Half  revealed,  half  concealed  in  a mist  of 
pure  gold. 

I once  had  a brother,  more  dear  than  the 
day, 

With  a temper  as  sweet  as  the  blossoms  in 
May; 

With  dark  hair  like  a cloud,  and  a face  like 
a rose, 

The  red  child  of  the  wild ! when  the  sum- 
mer-wind blows. 

We  lived  in  a cottage  that  stood  in  a dell ; 

Were  we  horn  there  or  brought  there  I never 
could  tell. 

Were  we  nursed  by  the  angels,  or  clothed  by 
the  fays, 

Or,  who  led  when  we  fled  down  the  deep 
sylvan  ways, 

’Mid  treasures  of  gold  and  of  silver ! 

When  we  rose  in  the  morning  we  ever  said 
“Hark!” 

We  shall  hear,  if  we  list,  the  first  word  of  the 
lark ; 

And  we  stood  with  our  faces,  calm,  silent, 
and  bright, 

While  the  breeze  in  the  trees  held  his  breath 
with  delight. 

0 the  stream  ran  with  music,  the  leaves  dript 
with  dew, 

And  we  looked  up  and  saw  the  great  God  in 
the  blue ; 

And  we  praised  him  and  blessed  him,  hut 
said  not  a word, 

For  we  soared,  we  adored,  with  that  magical 
bird. 

Then  with  hand  linked  in  hand,  how  we 
laughed,  how  we  sung ! 

How  we  danced  in  a ring,  when  the  morn- 
ing was  young ! 

How  we  wandered  where  kingcups  were 
crusted  with  gold, 

Or  more  white  than  the  light  glittered  daisies 
untold, 

Those  treasures  of  gold  and  of  silver ! 


O well  I remember  the  flowers  that  we  found, 

With  the  red  and  white  blossoms  that  dam- 
asked the  ground ; 

And  the  long  lane  of  light,  that,  half  yellow, 
half  green, 

Seemed  to  fade  down  the  glade  where  the 
young  fairy  queen 

Would  sit  with  her  fairies  around  her  and 
sing, 

While  we  listened  all  ear,  to  that  song  of  the 
Spring. 

0 well  I remember  the  lights  in  the  west, 

And  the  spire,  where  the  fire  of  the  sun 
seemed  to  rest, 

When  the  earth,  crimson-shadowed,  laughed 
out  in  the  air, — 

Ah ! I ’ll  never  believe  hut  the  fairies  were 
there ; 

Such  a feeling  of  loving  and  longing  was  ours, 

And  we  saw,  with  glad  awe,  little  hands  in 
the  flowers, 

Drop  treasures  of  gold  and  of  silver. 

O weep  ye  and  wail ! for  that  sister,  alas ! 

And  that  fair  gentle  brother  lie  low  in  the 
grass ; 

Perchance  the  red  robins  may  strew  them 
with  leaves, 

That  each  morn,  for  white  corn,  -\yould  come 
down  from  the  eaves ; 

Perchance  of  their  dust  the  young  violets  are 
made, 

That  bloom  by  the  church  that  is  hid  in  the 
glade ; 

But  one  day  I shall  learn,  if  I pass  where 
they  grow, 

Far  more  sweet  they  will  greet  their  old  play- 
mates, I know. 

Ah ! the  cottage  is  gone,  and  no  longer  I see 

The  old  glade,  the  old  paths,  and  no  lark 
sings  for  me ; 

But  I still  must  believe  that  the  fairies  are 
there, 

That  the  light  grows  more  bright,  touched 
by  fingers  so  fair, 

’Mid  treasures  of  gold  and  of  silver ! 

Anonymoib. 


168 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


THE  OPEN  WINDOW. 

The  old  house  by  the  lindens 
Stood  silent  in  the  shade, 

And  on  the  gravelled  pathway 
The  light  and  shadow  played. 

I saw  the  nursery  windows 
Wide  open  to  the  air ; 

But  the  faces  of  the  children, 

They  were  no  longer  there. 

The  large  Newfoundland  house-dog 
Was  standing  by  the  door ; 

He  looked  for  his  little  playmates, 
Who  would  return  no  more. 

They  walked  not  under  the  lindens, 
They  played  not  in  the  hall ; 

But  shadow,  and  silence,  and  sadness 
Were  hanging  over  all. 

The  birds  sang  in  the  branches, 

With  sweet  familiar  tone ; 

But  the  voices  of  the  children 
Will  be  heard  in  dreams  alone ! 

And  the  boy  that  walked  beside  me, 
He  could  not  understand 

Why  Closer  in  mine,  ah ! closer, 

I pressed  his  warm,  soft  hand ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


SHE  CAME  AND  WENT. 

As  a twig  trembles,  which  a bird 
Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred ; — 

I only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 

The  blue  dome’s  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment’s  heaven ; — 
I only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  Spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps ; — 

I only  know  she  came  and  went. 


An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 
Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent ; 
The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ; — 

I only  know  she  came  and  went. 

O,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  when  the  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

James  Exjssell  Lowell. 


THE  MORNING-GLORY. 

We  wreathed  about  our  darling’s  head 
The  morning-glory  bright ; 

Her  little  face  looked  out  beneath, 

So  full  of  life  and  light, 

So  lit  as  with  a sunrise, 

That  we  could  only  say, 

“ She  is  the  morning-glory  true, 

And  her  poor  types  are  they.” 

So  always  from  that  happy  time 
We  called  her  by  their  name, 

And  very  fitting  did  it  seem — 

For  sure  as  morning  came, 

Behind  her  cradle  bars  she  smiled 
To  catch  the  first  faint  ray, 

As  from  the  trellis  smiles  the  flower 
And  opens  to  the  day. 

But  not  so  beautiful  they  rear 
Their  airy  cups  of  blue, 

As  turned  her  sweet  eyes  to  the  light, 
Brimmed  with  sleep’s  tender  dew ; 

And  not  so  close  their  tendrils  fine 
Round  their  supports  are  thrown, 

As  those  dear  arms  whose  outstretched  plea 
Clasped  all  hearts  to  her  own. 

We  used  to  think  how  she  had  come, 

Even  as  comes  the  flower, 

The  last  and  perfect  added  gift 
To  crown  Love’s  morning  hour ; 

And  how  in  her  was  imaged  forth 
The  love  we  could  not  say, 

As  on  the  little  dewdrops  round 
Shines  back  the  heart  of  day. 


THE  THREE  SONS. 


169 


We  never  could  have  thought,  O God, 
That  she  must  wither  up, 

Almost  before  a day  was  flown, 

Like  the  morning-glory’s  cup ; 

We  never  thought  to  see  her  droop 
Her  fair  and  noble  head, 

Till  she  lay  stretched  before  our  eyes, 
Wilted,  and  cold,  and  dead ! 

The  morning-glory’s  blossoming 
Will  soon  be  coming  round — 

We  see  their  rows  of  heart-shaped  leaves 
Upspringing  from  the  ground ; 

The  tender  things  the  winter  killed 
Renew  again  their  birth, 

But  the  glory  of  our  morning 
Has  passed  away  from  earth. 

Oh,  Earth ! in  vain  our  aching  eyes 
Stretch  over  thy  green  plain ! 

Too  harsh  thy  dews,  too  gross  thine  air, 
Her  spirit  to  sustain : 

But  up  in  groves  of  Paradise 
Full  surely  we  shall  see 
Our  morning-glory  beautiful 

Twine  round  our  dear  Lord’s  knee. 

Maria  White  Lowell. 


BABY’S  SHOES. 

On  those  little,  those  little  blue  shoes ! 
Those  shoes  that  no  little  feet  use. 

Oh  the  price  were  high 
That  those  shoes  would  buy, 

Those  little  blue  unused  shoes ! 

For  they  hold  the  small  shape  of  feet 
That  no  more  their  mother’s  eyes  meet, 
That,  by  God’s  good  will, 

Years  since,  grew  still, 

And  ceased  from  their  totter  so  sweet. 

And  oh,  since  that  baby  slept, 

So  hushed,  how  the  mother  has  kept, 
With  a tearful  pleasure, 

That  little  dear  treasure, 

And  o’er  them  thought  and  wept ! 


For  they  mind  her  for  evermore 
Of  a patter  along  the  floor ; 

And  blue  eyes  she  sees 
Look  up  from  her  knees 
With  the  look  that  in  life  they  wore. 

As  they  lie  before  her  there, 

There  babbles  from  chair  to  chair 
A little  sweet  face 
That’s  a gleam  in  the  place, 

With  its  little  gold  curls  of  hair. 

Then  oh,  wonder  not  that  her  heart 
From  all  else  would  rather  part 
Than  those  tiny  blue  shoes 
That  no  little  feet  use, 

And  whose  sight  makes  such  fond  tears  start ! 

William  C.  Bennett. 


THE  THREE  SON'S. 

I have  a son,  a little  son,  a boy  just  five  years 
old, 

With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness,  and  mind 
of  gentle  mould. 

They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his 
ways  appears, 

That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  be- 
yond his  childish  years. 

I cannot  say  how  this  may  be ; I know  his 
face  is  fair — 

And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet 
and  serious  air ; 

I know  his  heart  is  kind  and  fond ; I know 
he  loveth  me ; 

But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more  with  grateful 
fervency. 

But  that  which  others  most  admire,  is  the 
thought  which  fills  his  mind, 

The  food  for  grave  inquiring  speech  he  every 
where  doth  find. 

Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  me,  when 
we  together  walk ; 

He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks 
as  children  talk. 

Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sports,  dotes 
not  on  bat  or  ball, 

But  looks  on  manhood’s  ways  and  works,  and 
aptly  mimics  all. 


170 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes 
perplext 

With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and 
thoughts  about  the  next. 

He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother’s  knee;  she 
teacheth  him  to  pray ; 

And  strange,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  then  are 
the  words  which  he  will  say. 

Oh,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to  man- 
hood’s years  like  me, 

A holier  and  a wiser  man  I trust  that  he  will 
he; 

And  when  I look  into  his  eyes,  and  stroke 
his  thoughtful  brow, 

I dare  not  think  what  I should  feel,  were  I to 
lose  him  now. 

I have  a son,  a second  son,  a simple  child  of 
three; 

I ’ll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little 
features  he, 

How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he 
prattles  on  my  knee ; 

I do  not  think  his  light-blue  eye  is,  like  his 
brother’s,  keen, 

Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thought  as 
his  hath  ever  been ; 

But  his  little  heart ’s  a fountain  pure  of  kind 
and  tender  feeling ; 

And  his  every  look ’s  a gleam  of  light,  rich 
depths  of  love  revealing. 

When  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk, 
who  pass  us  in  the  street, 

Will  shout  for  joy,  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks 
so  mild  and  sweet. 

A playfellow  is  he  to  all;  and  yet,  with 
cheerful  tone, 

Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to 
sport  alone. 

His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden 
home  and  hearth, 

To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten 
all  our  mirth. 

Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant 
his  heart  may  prove 

As  sweet  a home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now 
for  earthly  love ; 

And  if,  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching 
eyes  must  dim, 

God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we 
shall  lose  in  him. 


I have  a son,  a third  sweet  son ; his  age  1 
cannot  tell, 

For  they  reckon  not  by  years  and  months 
where  he  is  gone  to  dwell. 

To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant 
smiles  were  given; 

And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  Earth,  and  went 
to  live  in  Heaven. 

I cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he 
weareth  now, 

Nor  guess  how  bright  a glory  crowns  his 
shining  seraph  brow. 

The  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the  bliss 
which  he  doth  feel, 

Are  numbered  with  the  secret  things  which 
God  will  not  reveal. 

But  I know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that 
he  is  now  at  rest, 

Where  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Sa- 
viour’s loving  breast. 

I know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary 
load  of  flesh, 

But  his  sleep  is  blessed  with  endless  dreams 
of  joy  for  ever  fresh. 

I know  the  angels  fold  him  close  beneath 
their  glittering  wings, 

And  soothe  him  with  a song  that  breathes  of 
Heaven’s  divinest  things. 

I know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe,  (his 
mother  dear  and  I,) 

Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears 
from  every  eye. 

Whate’er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his  bliss 
can  never  cease ; 

Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his 
is  certain  peace. 

It  may  be  that  the  tempter’s  wiles  their  souls 
from  bliss  may  sever ; 

But,  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must 
be  ours  for  ever. 

When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and 
what  we  still  must  be — 

When  we  muse  on  that  world’s  perfect  bliss, 
and  this  world’s  misery — 

When  we  groan  beneath  this  load  of  sin,  and 
feel  this  grief  and  pain — 

0 ! we  ’d  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than 
have  him  here  again. 

John  Mottltkie. 


THRENODY. 


Ill 


THRENODY. 

The  South-wind  brings 
Life,  sunshine,  and  desire, 

And  on  every  mount  and  meadow 
Breathes  aromatic  fire ; 

But  over  the  dead  he  has  no  power ; 

The  lost,  the  lost,  he  cannot  restore ; 

And,  looking  over  the  hills,  I mourn 
The  darling  who  shall  not  return. 

I see  my  empty  house ; 

I see  my  trees  repair  their  boughs ; 

And  he,  the  wondrous  child, 

Whose  silver  warble  wild 
Outvalued  every  pulsing  sound 
Within  the  air’s  cerulean  round — 

The  hyacinthine  boy,  for  whom 
Morn  well  might  break  and  April  bloom — 
The  gracious  boy,  who  did  adorn 
The  world  whereinto  he  was  born, 

And  by  his  countenance  repay 
The  favor  of  the  loving  Day — 

Has  disappeared  from  the  Day’s  eye ; 

Far  and  wide  she  cannot  find  him ; 

My  hopes  pursue,  they  cannot  bind  him. 
Returned  this  day,  the  South-wind  searches, 
And  finds  young  pines  and  budding  birches; 
But  finds  not  the  budding  man ; 

Nature,  who  lost  him,  cannot  remake  him ; 
Fate  let  him  fall,  Fate  can’t  retake  him; 
Nature,  Fate,  Men,  him  seek  in  vain. 

And  whither  now,  my  truant  wise  and  sweet, 
O,  whither  tend  thy  feet  ? 

I had  the  right,  few  days  ago, 

Thy  steps  to  watch,  thy  place  to  know  • 

How  have  I forfeited  the  right? 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  in  a new  delight  ? 

I hearken  for  thy  household  cheer, 

O eloquent  child! 

Whose  voice,  an  equal  messenger, 

Conveyed  thy  meaning  mild. 

What  though  the  pains  and  joys 
Whereof  it  spoke  were  toys 
Fitting  his  age  and  ken, 

Yet  fairest  dames  and  bearded  men, 

Who  heard  the  sweet  request, 

So  gentle,  wise,  and  grave, 

Bended  with  joy  to  his  behest, 


And  let  the  world’s  affairs  go  by, 

Awhile  to  share  his  cordial  game, 

Or  mend  his  wicker  wagon-frame, 

Still  plotting  how  their  hungry  ear 
That  winsome  voice  again  might  hear ; 

For  his  lips  could  well  pronounce 
Words  that  were  persuasions. 

m 

Gentlest  guardians  marked  serene 
His  early  hope,  his  liberal  mien ; 

Took  counsel  from  his  guiding  eyes 
To  make  this  wisdom  earthly  wise. 

Ah,  vainly  do  these  eyes  recall 
The  school-march,  each  day’s  festival, 

When  every  morn  my  bosom  glowed 
To  watch  the  convoy  on  the  road ; 

The  babe  in  willow  wagon  closed, 

With  rolling  eyes  and  face  composed ; 

With  children  forward  and  behind, 

Like  Cupids  studiously  inclined ; 

And  he  the  chieftain  paced  beside, 

The  centre  of  the  troop  allied, 

With  sunny  face  of  sweet  repose, 

To  guard  the  babe  from  fancied  foes. 

The  little  captain  innocent 
Took  the  eye  with  him  as  he  went ; 

Each  village  senior  paused  to  scan 
And  speak  the  lovely  caravan. 

From  the  window  I look  out 
To  mark  thy  beautiful  parade, 

Stately  marching  in  cap  and  coat 
To  some  tune  by  fairies  played ; 

A music,  heard  by  thee  alone, 

To  works  as  noble  led  thee  on. 

Now  Love  and  Pride,  alas ! in  vain, 

Up  and  down  their  glances  strain. 

The  painted  sled  stands  where  it  stood ; 

The  kennel  by  the  corded  wood ; 

The  gathered  sticks  to  stanch  the  wall 
Of  the  snow-tower,  when  snow  should  fall  • 
The  ominous  hole  he  dug  in  the  sand, 

And  childhood’s  castles  built  or  planned ; 
His  daily  haunts  I well  discern — 

The  poultry-yard,  the  shed,  the  barn — 

And  every  inch  of  garden  ground 
Paced  by  the  blessed  feet  around, 

From  the  roadside  to  the  brook 
Whereinto  he  loved  to  look. 

Step  the  meek  birds  where  erst  they  ranged 
The  wintry  garden  lies  unchanged : 


112 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


The  brook  into  the  stream  runs  on ; 

But  the  ^deep-eyed  boy  is  gone. 

On  that  shaded  day, 

Dark  with  more  clouds  than  tempests  are, 
When  thou  didst  yield  thy  innocent  breath 
In  birdlike  heavings  unto  death, 

Night  came,  and  Nature  had  not  thee; 

I said,  “We  are  mates  in  misery.” 

The  morrow  dawned  with  needless  glow ; 
Each  snowbird  chirped,  each  fowl  must  crow ; 
Each  tramper  started ; but  the  feet 
Of  the  most  beautiful  and  sweet 
Of  human  youth  had  left  the  hill 
And  garden — they  were  bound  and  still. 
There ’s  not  a sparrow  or  a wren, 

There ’s  not  a blade  of  Autumn  grain, 

Which  the  four  seasons  do  not  tend, 

And  tides  of  life  and  increase  lend ; 

And  every  chick  of  every  bird, 

And  weed  and  rock-moss  is  preferred. 

O,  ostrich-like  forgetfulness! 

O,  loss  of  larger  in  the  less ! 

Was  there  no  star  that  could  be  sent, 

No  watcher  in  the  firmament, 

No  angel  from  the  countless  host 
That  loiters  round  the  crystal  coast, 

Could  stoop  to  heal  that  only  child, 

Nature’s  sweet  marvel  undefiled, 

And  keep  the  blossom  of  the  earth, 

Which  all  her  harvests  were  not  worth  ? 

Not  mine — I never  called  thee  mine, 

But  Nature’s  heir — if  I repine, 

And  seeing  rashly  torn  and  moved 
Not  what  I made,  but  what  I loved, 

Grew  early  old  with  grief  that  thou 
Must  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  go — 

’Tis  because  a general  hope 
Was  quenched,  and  all  must  doubt  and  grope 
For  flattering  planets  seemed  to  say 
This  child  should  ills  of  ages  stay, 

By  wondrous  tongue,  and  guided  pen, 

Bring  the  flown  Muses  back  to  men. 
Perchance  not  he,  but  Nature,  ailed; 

The  world  and  not  the  infant  failed. 

It  was  not  ripe  yet  to  sustain 
A genius  of  so  fine  a strain, 

Who  gazed  upon  the  sun  and  moon 
As  if  he  came  unto  his  own ; 

And,  pregnant  with  his  grander  thought, 
Brought  the  old  order  into  doubt. 


His  beauty  once  their  beauty  tried ; 

They  could  not  feed  him,  and  he  died, 

And  wandered  backward  as  in  scorn, 

To  wait  an  aeon  to  be  born. 

Ill  day  which  made  this  beauty  waste, 
Plight  broken,  this  high  face  defaced ! 

Some  went  and  came  about  the  dead ; 

And  some  in  books  of  solace  read ; 

Some  to  their  friends  the  tidings  say ; 

Some  went  to  write,  some  went  to  pray ; 
One  tarried  here,  there  hurried  one ; 

But  their  heart  abode  with  none. 

Covetous  Death  bereaved  us  all, 

To  aggrandize  one  funeral. 

The  eager  fate  which  carried  thee 
Took  the  largest  part  of  me. 

For  this  losing  is  true  dying; 

This  is  lordly  man’s  down-lying, 

This  his  slow  but  sure  reclining, 

Star  by  star  his  world  resigning. 

0 child  of  Paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father’s  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1 am  too  much  bereft. 

The  world  dishonored  thou  hast  left. 

0,  truth ’s  and  nature ’s  costly  lie ! 

O,  trusted  broken  prophecy ! 

O richest  fortune  sourly  crossed ! 

Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost ! 

The  deep  Heart  answered,  “ Weepest  thou? 
Worthier  cause  for  passion  wild 
If  I had  not  taken  the  child. 

And  deemest  thou  as  those  who  pore, 

With  aged  eyes,  short  way  before — 
Think’st  Beauty  vanished  from  the  coast 
Of  matter,  and  thy  darling  lost  ? 

Taught  he  not  thee — the  man  of  eld, 

Whose  eyes  within  his  eyes  beheld 
Heaven’s  numerous  hierarchy  span 
The  mystic  gulf  from  God  to  man? 

To  be  alone  wilt  thou  begin 
When  worlds  of  lovers  hem  thee  in  ? 
To-morrow  when  the  masks  shall  fall 
That  dizen  Nature’s  carnival, 

The  pure  shall  see  by  their  own  will, 

Which  overflowing  Love  shall  fill, 

’Tis  not  within  the  force  of  Fate 
The  fate-conjoined  to  separate. 


THRENODY. 


173 


But  thou,  my  votary,  weepest  thou? 

I gave  thee  sight — where  is  it  now  ? 

I taught  thy  heart  beyond  the  reach 
Of  ritual,  bible,  or  of  speech ; 

"Wrote  in  thy  mind’s  transparent  table, 

As  far  as  the  incommunicable ; 

Taught  thee  each  private  sign  to  raise, 

]Lit  by  the  super-solar  blaze. 

Past  utterance,  and  past  belief, 

And  past  the  blasphemy  of  grief, 

The  mysteries  of  Nature’s  heart; 

And  though  no  Muse  can  these  impart, 
Throb  thine  with  Nature’s  throbbing  breast, 
And  all  is  clear  from  east  to  west. 

“ I came  to  thee  as  to  a friend ; 

Dearest,  to  thee  I did  not  send 
Tutors,  but  a joyful  eye, 

Innocence  that  matched  the  sky, 

Lovely  locks,  a form  of  wonder, 

Laughter  rich  as  woodland  thunder, 

That  thou  might’st  entertain  apart 
The  richest  flowering  of  all  art ; 

And,  as  the  great  all-loving  Day 
Through  smallest  chambers  takes  its  way, 
That  thou  might’st  break  thy  daily  bread 
With  prophet,  Saviour,  and  head ; 

That  thou  might’st  cherish  for  thine  own 
The  riches  of  sweet  Mary’s  son, 

Boy -Rabbi,  Israel’s  paragon. 

And  thoughtest  thou  such  guest 
Would  in  thy  hall  take  up  his  rest? 

Would  rushing  life  forget  her  laws, 

Fate’s  glowing  revolution  pause  ? 

High  omens  ask  diviner  guess, 

Not  to  be  conned  to  tediousness. 

And  know  my  higher  gifts  unbind 
The  zone  that  girds  the  incarnate  mind. 
When  the  scanty  shores  are  full 
With  Thought’s  perilous,  whirling  pool ; 
When  frail  Nature  can  no  more, 

Then  the  Spirit  strikes  the  hour : 

My  servant  Death,  with  solving  rite, 

Pours  finite  into  infinite. 

“ Wilt  thou  freeze  Love’s  tidal  flow, 

Whose  streams  through  Nature  circling  go? 
Nail  the  wild  star  to  its  track 
On  the  half-climbed  zodiac  ? 

Light  is  light  which  radiates ; 

Blood  is  blood  which  circulates ; 


Life  is  life  which  generates ; 

And  many-seeming  life  is  one — 

Wilt  thou  transfix  and  make  it  none  ? 

Its  onward  force  too  starkly  pent 
In  figure,  bone,  and  lineament  ? 

Wilt  thou,  uncalled,  interrogate, 

Talker!  the  unreplying  Fate? 

Nor  see  the  genius  of  the  whole 
Ascendant  in  the  private  soul, 

Beckon  it  when  to  go  and  come, 
Self-announced  its  hour  of  doom  ? 

Fair  the  soul’s  recess  and  shrine, 
Magic-built  to  last  a season  ; 

Masterpiece  of  love  benign ; 

Fairer  than  expansive  reason, 

Whose  omen  ’tis,  and  sign. 

Wilt  thou  not  ope  thy  heart  to  know 
What  rainbows  teach,  and  sunsets  show  ? 
Yerdict  which  accumulates 
From  lengthening  scroll  of  human  fates, 
Voice  of  earth  to  earth  returned, 

Prayers  of  saints  that  inly  burned — 
Saying,  What  is  excellent, 

As  God  lives,  is  permanent ; 

Hearts  are  dust,  hearts'  loves  remain  ; 
Hearts'  love  will  meet  thee  again . 

Revere  the  Maker ; fetch  thine  eye 
Up  to  his  style,  and  manners  of  the  sky. 
Not  of  adamant  and  gold 
Built  he  heaven  stark  and  cold ; 

No,  but  a nest  of  bending  reeds, 

Flowering  grass,  and  scented  weeds ; 

Or  like  a traveller’s  fleeing  tent, 

Or  bow  above  the  tempest  bent ; 

Built  of  tears  and  sacred  flames, 

And  virtue  reaching  to  its  aims ; 

Built  of  furtherance  and  pursuing, 

Not  of  spent  deeds,  but  of  doing. 

Silent  rushes  the  swift  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 
Broadsowing,  bleak  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness ; 

Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples  of  Eden  ripe  to-morrow. 

House  and  tenant  go  to  ground, 

Lost  in  God,  in  Godhead  found.” 

Ralpii  Waldo  Emerson. 


114 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


CASA  WAPPY  * 

And  hast  thou  sought  thy  heavenly  home, 
Our  fond,  dear  hoy — 

The  realms  where  sorrow  dare  not  come, 
Where  life  is  joy  ? 

Pure  at  thy  death,  as  at  thy  birth, 

Thy  spirit  caught  no  taint  from  earth; 

Even  by  its  bliss  we  mete  our  dearth, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Despair  was  in  our  last  farewell, 

As  closed  thine  eye ; 

Tears  of  our  anguish  may  not  tell 
When  thou  didst  die ; 

Words  may  not  paint  our  grief  for  thee ; 

Sighs  are  but  bubbles  on  the  sea 

Of  our  unfathomed  agony ; 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Thou  wert  a vision  of  delight, 

To  bless  us  given ; 

Beauty  embodied  to  our  sight — 

A type  of  heaven ! 

So  dear  to  us  thou  wert,  thou  art 

Even  less  thine  own  self,  than  a part 

Of  mine,  and  of  thy  Mother’s  heart, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

I Thy  bright,  brief  day  knew  no  decline — 

’T  was  cloudless  joy ; 

! Sunrise  and  night  alone  were  thine, 
Beloved  boy ! 

I This  moon  beheld  thee  blythe  and  gay ; 

That  found  thee  prostrate  in  decay ; 

And  ere  a third  shone,  clay  was  clay, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Gem  of  our  hearth,  our  household  pride, 
Earth’s  undefiled, 

Could  love  have  saved,  thou  hadst  not  died, 
Our  dear,  sweet  child ! 

Humbly  we  bow  to  Fate’s  decree ; 

Yet  had  we  hoped  that  Time  should  see 

Thee  mourn  for  us,  not  us  for  thee, 

Casa  Wappy ! 


Do  what  I may,  go  where  I will, 

Thou  meet’st  my  sight ; 

There  dost  thou  glide  before  me  still — 

A form  of  light ! 

I feel  thy  breath  upon  my  cheek — 

I see  thee  smile,  I hear  thee  speak — 

Till  oh  ! my  heart  is  like  to  break, 

Casa  Wappy! 

Methinks  thou  smil’st  before  me  now, 

With  glance  of  stealth  ; 

The  hair  thrown  back  from  thy  full  brow 
In  buoyant  health ; 

I see  thine  eyes’  deep  violet  light — 

Thy  dimpled  cheek  carnationed  bright — , 
Thy  clasping  arms  so  round  and  white — 
Casa  Wappy ! 

The  nursery  shows  thy  pictured  wall, 

Thy  bat — thy  bow — 

Thy  cloak  and  bonnet — club  and  ball ; 

But  where  art  thou  ? 

A corner  holds  thine  empty  chair ; 

Thy  playthings,  idly  scattered  there, 

But  speak  to  us  of  our  despair, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Even  to  the  last,  thy  every  word — 

To  glad — to  grieve — 

Was  sweet,  as  sweetest  song  of  bird 
On  Summer’s  eve ; 

In  outward  beauty  undecayed, 

Death  o’er  thy  spirit  cast  no  shade, 

And,  like  the  rainbow,  thou  didst  fade, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

We  mourn  for  thee,  when  blind,  blank  night 
The  chamber  fills ; 

We  pine  for  thee,  when  morn’s  first  light 
Reddens  the  hills ; 

The  sun,  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sea, 

All — to  the  wall-flower  and  wild-pea — 

Are  changed ; we  saw  the  world  thro’  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

And  though,  perchance,  a smile  may  gleam 
Of  casual  mirth, 

It  doth  not  own,  whate’er  may  seem, 

An  inward  birth ; 


* The  self-appellative  of  a beloved  child. 


MY  CHILD. 


175 


We  miss  thy  small  step  on  the  stair ; — 

We  miss  thee  at  thine  evening  prayer ; 

All  day  we  miss  thee — every  where — 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Snows  muffled  earth  when  thou  didst  go, 

In  life’s  spring-bloom, 

Down  to  the  appointed  house  below — 

The  silent  tomb. 

But  now  the  green  leaves  of  the  tree, 

The  cuckoo,  and  “ the  busy  bee,” 

Return — but  with  them  bring  not  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

’T  is  so ; but  can  it  be — while  flowers 
Revive  again  — 

Man’s  doom,  in  death  that  we  and  ours 
For  aye  remain  ? 

Oh ! can  it  be,  that,  o’er  the  grave, 

The  grass  renewed  should  yearly  wave, 

Yet  God  forget  our  child  to  save  ? — 

Casa  Wappy ! 

It  cannot  be ; for  were  it  so 
Thus  man  could  die, 

Life  were  a mockery — thought  were  woe — 
And  truth  a lie  ; — 

Heaven  were  a coinage  of  the  brain — 
Religion  frenzy — virtue  vain — 

And  all  our  hopes  to  meet  again, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Then  be  to  us,  O dear,  lost  child ! 

With  beam  of  love, 

A star,  death’s  uncongenial  wild 
Smiling  above ! 

Soon,  soon,  thy  little  feet  have  trod 
The  skyward  path,  the  seraph’s  road, 

That  led  thee  back  from  man  to  God, 

Casa  Wappy ! 

Yet,  ’t  is  sweet  balm  to  our  despair, 

Fond,  fairest  boy, 

That  Heaven  is  God’s,  and  thou  art  there, 
With  him  in  joy  ; 

There  past  are  death  and  all  its  woes ; 
There  beauty’s  stream  for  ever  flows ; 

And  pleasure’s  day  no  sunset  knows, 

Casa  Wappy ! 


Farewell  then — for  a while,  farewell — 
Pride  of  my  heart ! 

It  cannot  be  that  long  we  dwell, 

Thus  torn  apart. 

Time’s  shadows  like  the  shuttle  flee ; 

And,  dark  howe’er  life’s  night  may  be, 
Beyond  the  grave,  I ’ll  meet  with  thee, 
Casa  Wappy ! 

Davip  Macbeth  Moir. 


MY  CHILD. 

I cannot  make  him  dead ! 

His  fair  sunshiny  head 
Is  ever  bounding  round  my  study  chair ; 

Yet,  when  my  eyes,  now  dim 
With  tears,  I turn  to  him, 

The  vision  vanishes — he  is  not  there ! 

I walk  my  parlour  floor, 

And,  through  the  open  door, 

I hear  a footfall  on  the  chamber  stair ; 

I ’m  stepping  toward  the  hall 
To  give  the  boy  a call ; 

And  then  bethink  me  that — he  is  not  there  1 

I thread  the  crowded  street ; 

A satchelled  lad  I meet, 

With  the  same  beaming  eyes  and  colored  hair: 
Ajad,  as  he ’s  running  by, 

Follow  him  with  my  eye, 

Scarcely  believing  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I know  his  face  is  hid 
Under  the  coffin  lid ; 

Closed  are  his  eyes ; cold  is  his  forehead  fair ; 
My  hand  that  marble  felt ; 

O’er  it  in  prayer  I knelt ; 

Yet  my  heart  whispers  that — he  is  not  there ! 

I cannot  make  him  dead ! 

When  passing  by  the  bed, 

So  long  watched  over  with  parental  care, 

My  spirit  and  my  eye 
Seek  him  inquiringly, 

Before  the  thought  comes  that — he  is  not 
there ! 


170 


POEMS  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


When,  at  the  cool,  gray  break 
Of  day,  from  sleep  I wake, 

With  my  first  breathing  of  the  morning  air 
My  soul  goes  up,  with  joy, 

To  Him  who  gave  my  boy ; 

Then  comes  the  sad  thought  that — he  is  not 
there ! 

When  at  the  day’s  calm  close, 

Before  we  seek  repose, 

I ’m  with  his  mother,  offering  up  our  prayer, 
Whate’er  I may  be  saying, 

I am  in  spirit  praying 

For  our  boy’s  spirit,  though — he  is  not  there ! 

Hot  there ! — Where,  then,  is  he  ? 

The  form  I used  to  see 
Was  but  the  raiment  that  he  used  to  wear. 
The  grave,  that  now  doth  press 
Upon  that  cast-off  dress, 

Is  but  his  wardrobe  locked ; — he  is  not  there ! 


THE  WIDOW  AND  CHILD. 

Home  they  brought  her  warrior  dead ; 

She  nor  swooned,  nor  uttered  cry ; 

All  her  maidens,  watching,  said, 

“ She  must  weep  or  she  will  die.” 

Then  they  praised  him,  soft  and  low, 
Called  him  worthy  to  be  loved, 

Truest  friend  and  noblest  foe ; 

Yet  she  neither  spoke  nor  moved. 

Stole  a maiden  from  her  place, 

Lightly  to  the  warrior  stept, 

Took  a face-cloth  from  the  face ; 

Yet  she  neither  moved  nor  wept. 

Rose  a nurse  of  ninety  years, 

Set  his  child  upon  her  knee— 

Like  summer  tempest  came  her  tears — 
“ Sweet  my  child,  I live  for  thee.” 

Alfred  Tennyson 


He  lives ! — In  all  the  past 
He  lives ; nor,  to  the  last, 

Of  seeing  him  again  will  I despair ; 

In  dreams  I see  him  now ; 

And,  on  his  angel  brow, 

I see  it  written,  “ Thou  shalt  see  me  there  /” 

Yes,  we  all  live  to  God ! 

Fathek,  thy  chastening  rod 
So  help  us,  thine  afflicted  ones,  to  bear, 

That,  in  the  spirit  land, 

Meeting  at  thy  right  hand, 

’Twill  be  our  heaven  to  find  that — he  is 
there ! 

John  Piebpont. 


THE  RECONCILIATION. 

As  through  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 
And  plucked  the  ripened  ears, 

We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, — 

O,  we  fell  out,  I know  not  why, 

And  kissed  again  with  tears. 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 
We  lost  in  other  years, 

There  above  the  little  grave, 

O,  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kissed  again  with  tears. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


PART  III. 


POEMS 


OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


Gieb  treulich  mir  die  Hande, 
Sei  Bruder  mir,  und  wende 
Den  Blick,  vor  deinem  Ende, 
Nicht  wieder  weg  von  mir. 

Ein  Tempel  wo  wir  knien, 

Ein  Ort  wohin  wir  ziehen, 

Ein  Gluck  fur  das  wir  gltihen, 
Ein  Himmel  mir  und  dir ! 

Novalis. 


Then  let  the  chill  sirocco  blow 
And  gird  us  round  with  hills  of  snow ; 

Or  else  go  whistle  to  the  shore, 

And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar. 

Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 
Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit ; 
Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home, 
Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

We’ll  think  of  all  the  friends  we  know, 

And  drink  to  all  worth  drinking  to  ; 

When,  having  drank  all  thine  and  mine, 

We  rather  shall  want  health  than  wine. 

But  where  friends  fail  us,  we  ’ll  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  charity ; 

Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live,. 

Shall  by  our  lusty  brimmers  thrive. 

We  ’ll  drink  the  wanting  into  wealth, 

And  those  that  languish  into  health, 


The  afflicted  into  joy,  th’  opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

The  worthy  in  disgrace  shall  find 
Favor  return  again  moi’e  kind ; 

And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie, 

Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

The  brave  shall  triumph  in  success ; 

The  lovers  shall  have  mistresses ; 

Poor  unregarded  virtue,  praise ; 

And  the  neglected  poet,  bays. 

Thus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good, 

Whilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would ; 

For,  freed  from  envy  and  from  care, 

What  would  we  be,  but  what  we  are  ? 

’T  is  the  plump  grape’s  immortal  juice 
That  does  this  happiness  produce, 

And  will  preserve  us  free  together, 

Maugre  mischance,  or  wind  and  weather. 

Charles  Cotton. 


12 


* 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP 


EARLY  FRIENDSHIP. 

The  half-seen  memories  of  childish  days, 
When  pains  and  pleasures  lightly  came  and 
went; 

The  sympathies  of  boyhood  rashly  spent 
In  fearful  wanderings  through  forbidden 
ways; 

The  vague,  but  manly,  wish  to  tread  the  maze 
Of  life  to  noble  ends ; whereon  intent, 
Asking  to  know  for  what  man  here  is  sent, 
The  bravest  heart  must  often  pause,  and 
gaze — 

The  firm  resolve  to  seek  the  chosen  end 
Of  manhood’s  judgment,  cautious  and  mature : 
Each  of  these  viewless  bonds  binds  friend  to 
friend 

With  strength  no  selfish  purpose  can  secure ; — 
My  happy  lot  is  this,  that  all  attend 
That  friendship  which  first  came,  and  which 
shall  last  endure. 

Aubrey  be  Yere. 


WHEN  SHALL  WE  THREE  MEET 
AGAIN? 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again? 
When  shall  we  three  meet  again? 
Oft  shall  glowing  hope  expire, 

Oft  shall  wearied  love  retire, 

Oft  shall  death  and  sorrow  reign, 
Ere  we  three  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  a hostile  sky ; 


Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls. 

Still  in  Fancy’s  rich  domain 
Oft  shall  we  three  meet  again. 

When  the  dreams  of  life  are  fled, 

When  its  wasted  lamps  are  dead ; 
When  in  cold  oblivion’s  shade, 

Beauty,  power,  and  fame  are  laid ; 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign, 

There  shall  we  three  meet  again. 

Anonymous. 


FROM  “IN  MEMORIAM.” 

I envy  not,  in  any  moods, 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 

The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods. 

I envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 
His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfettered  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a conscience  never  wakes ; 

Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth — 
Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

I hold  it  true,  whate’er  befall — 

I feel  it,  when  I sorrow  most — 

’T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


180 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 

A rainy  cloud  possessed  the  earth 
And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas  eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 
We  gambolled,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 
Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  alL 

We  paused ; the  winds  were  in  the  beech — 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land; 
And  in  a circle  hand  in  hand 
Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang ; 

We  sang,  though  every  eye  was  dim — 

A merry  song  we  sang  with  him 
Last  year : impetuously  we  sang ; 

We  ceased.  A gentler  feeling  crept 
Upon  us ; surely  rest  is  meet ; 

“They  rest,”  we  said,  “their  sleep  is  sweet.” 
Aad  silence  followed,  and  we  wept. 

Our  voices  took  a higher  range ; 

Once  more  we  sang:  “They  do  not  die, 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change: 

“Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail, 

With  gathered  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 
From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil. 

“Rise,  happy  morn!  rise,  holy  morn! 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night ! 

O Father ! touch  the  east,  and  light 
The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born ! ” 


Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 

Whose  life  in  low  estate  began, 

And  on  a simple  village  green  ? 

Who  breaks  his  birth’s  invidious  bar, 

And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 
And  grapples  with  his  evil  star ; 


Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known, 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys — 
To  mould  a mighty  state’s  decrees, 
And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 
Becomes  on  Fortune’s  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a people’s  hope, 

The  centre  of  a world’s  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 

A distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  played  at  counsellors  and  kings, 
With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea, 
And  reaps  the  labor  of  his  hands, 

Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands : 
“Does  my  old  friend  remember  me?” 


Witch-elms,  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright , 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 
Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 

And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 
The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town ! 

He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw ; 

He  mixed  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  brawling 
courts 

And  dusky  purlieus  of  the  law. 

0 joy  to  him,  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 

To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 
The  landscape  winking  through  the  heat 

O sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 

The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 

The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears! 


FROM  “IN  MEMORI AM.” 


18i 


O bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 
Abont  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed, 

To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 
The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn ; 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 
A guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 

Or  here  she  brought  the  harp,  and  flung 
A ballad  to  the  brightening  moon ! 

Nor  less  it  pleased,  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 

And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 
With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods ; 

Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discussed  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 

Or  touched  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream. 

But  if  I praised  the  busy  town, 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 

For  “ ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other’s  angles  down, 

“And  merge,”  he  said,  “in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man.” 

We  talked;  the  stream  beneath  us  ran, 
The  wine-flask  lying  couched  in  moss, 

Or  cooled  within  the  glooming  wave  ; 

And  last,  returning  from  afar, 

Before  the  crimson-circled  star 
Had  fallen  into  her  father’s  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle  deep  in  flowers, 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


Tny  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 

The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years ; 

The  feeble  soul,  a haunt  of  fears ; 
Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 

On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarmed  of  pride ; 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 
To  flicker  with  his  treble  tongue. 


The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by ; 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee ; and  the  brazen  fool 
Was  softened,  and  he  knew  not  why; 

While  I,  thy  dearest  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine ; 

And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were  thine, 
The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art ; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 

But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 

And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 
That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 

So  far,  so  near,  in  woe  and  weal ; 

O,  loved  the  most  when  most  I feel 
There  is  a lower  and  a higher ; 

Known  and  unknown,  human,  divine ! 
Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye. 
Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine ! 

Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be, 
Loved  deeplier,  darklier  understood ; 
Behold  I dream  a dream  of  good 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air ; 

I hear  thee  where  the  waters  run ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou,  then  ? I cannot  guess ; 

But  though  I seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee,  some  diffusive  power, 

I do  not  therefore  love  thee  less : 

My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now ; 

Though  mixed  with  God  and  Nature  thou 
I seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh ; 

I have  thee  still,  and  I rejoice. 

I prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 

I shall  not  lose  thee,  though  I die. 

Alfred  Tennyson 


182 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


THE  FIRE  OF  DRIFT-WOOD. 

We  sat  within  the  farm-house  old, 

Whose  windows,  looking  o’er  the  bay, 
Gave  to  the  sea-breeze,  damp  and  cold, 

An  easy  entrance,  night  and  day. 

Not  far  away  we  saw  the  port, — 

The  strange,  old-fashioned,  silent  town, — 
The  light-house, — the  dismantled  fort, — 

The  wooden  houses,  quaint  and  brown. 

We  sat  and  talked  until  the  night, 
Descending,  filled  the  little  room ; 

Our  faces  faded  from  the  sight — 

Our  voices  only  broke  the  gloom. 

We  spake  of  many  a vanished  scene, 

Of  what  we  once  had  thought  and  said, 

Of  what  had  been,  and  might  have  been, 
And  who  was  changed,  and  who  was  dead ; 

And  all  that  fills  the  hearts  of  friends, 

When  first  they  feel,  with  secret  pain, 
Their  lives  thenceforth  have  separate  ends, 
And  never  can  be  one  again ; 

The  first  slight  swerving  of  the  heart, 

That  words  are  powerless  to  express, 

And  leave  it  still  unsaid  in  part, 

Or  say  it  in  too  great  excess. 

The  very  tones  in  which  we  spake 
Had  something  strange,  I could  but  mark  ; 
The  leaves  of  memory  seemed  to  make 
A mournful  rustling  in  the  dark. 

Oft  died  the  words  upon  our  lips, 

As  suddenly,  from  out  the  fire 
Built  of  the  wreck  of  stranded  ships, 

The  fiames  would  leap  and  then  expire. 

And,  as  their  splendor  flashed  and  failed, 

We  thought  of  wrecks  upon  the  main, — 
Of  ships  dismasted,  that  were  hailed 
And  sent  no  answer  back  again. 


The  windows,  rattling  in  their  frames, — 

The  ocean,  roaring  up  the  beach, — 

The  gusty  blast, — the  bickering  flames, — 

All  mingled  vaguely  in  our  speech  ; 

Until  they  made  themselves  a part 
Of  fancies  floating  through  the  brain, — 
The  long-lost  ventures  of  the  heart, 

That  send  no  answers  back  again. 

0 flames  that  glowed ! 0 hearts  that  yearned ! 

They  were  indeed  too  much  akin — 

The  drift-wood  fire  without  that  burned, 

The  thoughts  that  burned  and  glowed 
within. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  PASSAGE. 

Many  a year  is  in  its  grave, 

Since  I crossed  this  restless  wave ; 

And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 

Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then  in  this  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried — 

One  with  all  a father’s  truth, 

One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 

And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 

But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene’er  I turn  my  eye 
Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o’er  me; 
Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 

But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 

Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 

Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  0 boatman,  thrice  thy  fee, — 

Take,  I give  it  willingly ; 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

Ludwig  Uhl  and.  (German.) 
Anonymous  Translation. 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 


18S 


CAPE-COTTAGE  AT  SUNSET. 

We  stood  upon  the  ragged  rocks, 

When  the  long  day  was  nearly  done ; 

The  waves  had  ceased  their  sullen  shocks, 
And  lapped  our  feet  with  murmuring  tone, 
And  o’er  the  hay  in  streaming  locks 
Blew  the  red  tresses  of  the  sun. 

Along  the  West  the  golden  bars 
Still  to  a deeper  glory  grew ; 

Above  our  heads  the  faint,  few  stars 
Looked  out  from  the  unfathomed  blue ; 
And  the  fair  city’s  clamorous  jars 
Seemed  melted  in  that  evening  hue. 

0 sunset  sky ! O purple  tide ! 

O friends  to  friends  that  closer  pressed ! 
Those  glories  have  in  darkness  died, 

And  ye  have  left  my  longing  breast. 

1 could  not  keep  you  by  my  side, 

Nor  fix  that  radiance  in  the  West. 

Upon  those  rocks  the  waves  shall  beat 
With  the  same  low  and  murmuring  strain ; 
Across  those  waves,  with  glancing  feet, 

The  sunset  rays  shall  seek  the  main ; 

But  when  together  shall  we  meet 
Upon  that  far-off  shore  again  ? 

W.  B.  Glazier. 


THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES. 

I have  had  playmates,  I have  had  com- 
panions, 

In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school- 
days ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I have  been  laughing,  I have  been  carousing, 

Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom 
cronies ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I loved  a love  once,  fairest  among  women ; 

Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I must  not  see 
her ; 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


I have  a friend,  a kinder  friend  has  no  man  , 

Like  an  ingrate,  I left  my  friend  abruptly — 

Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I paced  round  the  haunts  of  my 
childhood. 

Earth  seemed  a desert  I was  bound  to  tra- 
verse, 

Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a bro- 
ther, 

Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father’s 
dwelling  ? 

So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces — 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they 
have  left  me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me;  all  are  de- 
parted, 

All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces ! 

Charles  Lamb. 


WE  HAVE  BEEN  FRIENDS  TOGETHER. 

We  have  been  friends  together, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade ; 

Since  first  beneath  the  chestnut  trees 
In  infancy  we  played. 

But  coldness  dwells  within  thy  heart — 

A cloud  is  on  thy  brow ; 

We  have  been  friends  together — 

Shall  a light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  gay  together ; 

We  have  laughed  at  little  jests ; 

For  the  fount  of  hope  was  gushing, 

Warm  and  joyous,  in  our  breasts. 

But  laughter  now  hath  fled  thy  lip, 

And  sullen  glooms  thy  brow  ; 

We  have  been  gay  together — 

Shall  a light  word  part  us  now  ? 

We  have  been  sad  together — 

We  have  wept,  with  bitter  tears, 

O’er  the  grass-grown  graves,  where  slum- 
bered 

The  hopes  of  early  years. 


184 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


The  voices  which  are  silent  there 
Would  bid  thee  clear  thy  brow ; 

We  have  been  sad  together — 

O ! what  shall  part  us  now  ? 

Caroline  Norton. 


GIVE  ME  THE  OLD. 

OLD  WINE  TO  DRINK,  OLD  WOOD  TO  BURN,  OLD 
BOOKS  TO  READ,  AND  OLD  FRIENDS  TO  CON- 
VERSE WITH. 

I. 

Old  wine  to  drink ! — 

Ay,  give  the  slippery  juice 
That  drippeth  from  the  grape  thrown  loose 
Within  the  tun ; 

Plncked  from  beneath  the  cliff 
Of  sunny-sided  Teneriffe, 

And  ripened  ’neath  the  blink 
Of  India’s  sun ! 

Peat  whiskey  hot, 

Tempered  with  well-boiled  water ! 

These  make  the  long  night  shorter, — 
Forgetting  not 

Good  stout  old  English  porter. 

n. 

Old  wood  to  burn ! — 

Ay,  bring  the  hill-side  beech 
From  where  the  owlets  meet  and  screech, 
And  ravens  croak ; 

The  crackling  pine,  and  cedar  sweet ; 

Bring  too  a clump  of  fragrant  peat, 

Dug  ’neath  the  fern ; 

The  knotted  oak, 

A faggot  too,  perhap, 

Whose  bright  flame,  dancing,  winking, 

Shall  light  us  at  our  drinking ; 

While  the  oozing  sap 
Shall  make  sweet  music  to  our  thinking. 

m. 

Old  books  to  read ! — 

Ay,  bring  those  nodes  of  wit, 

The  brazen- clasped,  the  vellum  writ, 

Time  honored  tomes ! 


The  same  my  sire  scanned  before, 

The  same  my  grandsire  thumbed  o’er, 

The  same  his  sire  from  college  bore, 

The  well-earned  meed 
Of  Oxford’s  domes : 

Old  Homer  blind, 

Old  Horace,  rake  Anacreon,  by 
Old  Tully,  Plautus,  Terence  lie ; 

Mort  Arthur’s  olden  minstrelsie, 

Quaint  Burton,  quainter  Spenser,  ay ! 

And  Gervase  Markham’s  venerie — 

Nor  leave  behind 

The  Holye  Book  by  which  we  live  and  die. 

IV. 

Old  friends  to  talk ! — 

Ay,  bring  those  chosen  few, 

The  wise,  the  courtly,  and  the  true, 

So  rarely  found ; 

Him  for  my  wine,  him  for  my  stud, 

Him  for  my  easel,  distich,  bud 
In  mountain  walk ! 

Bring  Walter  good : 

With  soulful  Fred  ; and  learned  Will, 

And  thee,  my  alter  ego , (dearer  still 
For  every  mood). 

Robert  Hinckley  Messinger. 


SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT. 

Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light, 

Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in ; 

With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 
Which  a bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night , with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  healer's  brim , 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting . 

0 ! if  Mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 
Of  Time  through  Life’s  dominions, 

We  here  a while  would  now  beguile 
The  graybeard  of  his  pinions, 

To  drink  to-night , with  hearts  as  light , 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim) 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meetina 


CONVIVIAL  SONGS. 


185 


But  since  Delight  can’t  tempt  the  wight, 
Nor  fond  Regret'  delay  him, 

Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 

Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 

WeHl  drink  to-night , with  hearts  as  light , 
To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on*  the  'beaker's  brim , 
And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Chables  Fenno  Hoffman. 


WREATHE  THE  BOWL. 

Wkeathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heav’n  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us ! 
Should  Love  amid 
The  wreaths  be  hid 
That  Joy,  the  enchanter,  brings  us, 
No  danger  fear 
While  wine  is  near — 

We’ll  drown  him  if  he  stings  us. 
Then  wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heav’n  to-night, 
And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us ! 

’T  was  nectar  fed 
Of  old,  ’t  is  said, 

Their  Junos,  Joves,  Apollos ; 

And  man  may  brew 
His  nectar  too ; 

The  rich  receipt’s  as  follows: — 
Take  wine  like  this ; 

Let  looks  of  bliss 
Around  it  well  be  blended; 

Then  bring  Wit’s  beam 
To  warm  the  stream, 

And  there ’s  your  nectar,  splendid ! 
So  wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us ; 
We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heav’n  to-night, 
And  leave  doll  earth  behind  us ! 


Say,  why  did  Time 
His  glass  sublime 
Fill  up  with  sands  unsightly, 

When  wine  he  knew 
Runs  brisker  through, 

And  sparkles  far  more  brightly  ? 

Oh,  lend  it  us, 

And,  smiling  thus, 

The  glass  in  two  we ’d  sever, 

Make  pleasure  glide 
In  double  tide, 

And  fill  both  ends  for  ever ! 

Then  wreathe  the  bowl 
With  flowers  of  soul, 

The  brightest  Wit  can  find  us; 

We’ll  take  a flight 
Towards  heav’n  to-night, 

And  leave  dull  earth  behind  us ! 

Thomas  Moobe. 


CHAMPAGNE  ROSE! 

Lily  on  liquid  roses  floating — 

So  floats  yon  foam  o’er  pink  champagne — 

Fain  would  I join  such  pleasant  boating, 

And  prove  that  ruby  main, 

And  float  away  on  wine ! 

Those  seas  are  dangerous,  graybeards  swear— 
Whose  sea-beach  is  the  goblet’s  brim ; 

And  true  it  is  they  drown  old  Care — 

But  what  care  we  for  him, 

So  we  but  float  on  wine ! 

And  true  it  is  they  cross  in  pain, 

Who  sober  cross  the  Stygian  ferry ; 

But  only  make  our  Styx  champagne, 

And  we  shall  cross  right  merry. 

Floating  away  in  wine ! 

Old  Charon’s  self  shall  make  him  mellow, 
Then  gayly  row  his  boat  from  shore ; 

While  we,  and  every  jovial  fellow, 

Hear,  unconcerned,  the  oar, 

That  dips  itself  in  wine ! 

John  Kenton. 


186 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


FILL  THE  BUMPER  FAIR. 

Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle. 

Wit’s  electric  flame 
Ne’er  so  swiftly  passes 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say, 

Grasp  the  lightning’s  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 
From  the  starred  dominions: — 
So  we,  sages,  sit, 

And,  ’mid  bumpers  bright’ning, 
From  the  heaven  of  wit 
Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 


Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O’er  the  brow  of  Care 
Smooths  away  a wrinkle. 

Thomas  Mooes. 


AND  DOTH  NOT  A MEETING  LIKE 
THIS. 

And  doth  not  a meeting  like  this  make 
amends 

For  all  the  long  years  I’ve  been  wand’ring 
away — 

To  see  thus  around  me  my  youth’s  early 
friends, 

As  smiling  and  kind  as  in  that  happy  day  ? 

Though  haply  o’er  some  of  your  brows,  as 
o’er  mine, 

The  snow-fall  of  Time  may  be  stealing — what 
then? 

Like  Alps  in  the  sunset,  thus  lighted  by  wine, 

We ’ll  wear  the  gay  tinge  of  Youth’s  roses 
again. 


Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 
Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine’s  celestial  spirit  ? 

It  chanced  upon  that  day, 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 
The  living  fires  that  warm  us : 

The  careless  Youth,  when  up 
To  Glory’s  fount  aspiring, 

Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfered  fire  in. — 
But  oh  his  joy,  when,  round 
The  halls  of  heaven  spying 
Among  the  stars,  he  found 
A bowl  of  Bacchus  lying ! 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl, 
Remains  of  last  night’s  pleasure, 
With  which  the  sparks  of  soul 
Mixed  their  burning  treasure. 
Hence  the  goblet’s  shower 
Hath  such  spells  to  win  us ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 
O’er  that  flame  within  us. 


What  softened  remembrances  come  o’er  the 
heart, 

In  gazing  on  those  we’ve  been  lost  to  so  long! 

The  sorrows,  the  joys,  of  which  once  they 
were  part, 

Still  round  them,  like  visions  of  yesterday, 
throng ; 

As  letters  some  hand  hath  invisibly  traced, 

When  held  to  the  flame  will  steal  out  on  the 
sight, 

So  many  a feeling,  that  long  seemed  effaced, 

The  warmth  of  a moment  like  this  brings  to 
light. 

And  thus,  as  in  memory’s  bark  we  shall  glide, 

To  visit  the  scenes  of  our  boyhood  anew, 

Though  oft  we  may  see,  looking  down  on  the 
tide, 

The  wreck  of  full  many  a hope  shining 
through ; 

Yet  still,  as  in  fancy  we  point  to  the  flowers 

That  once  made  a garden  of  all  the  gay  shore, 

Deceived  for  a moment,  we’ll  think  them 
still  ours, 

And  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  Life’s  morning 
once  more. 


CONVIVIAL  SONGS. 


181 


So  brief  our  existence,  a glimpse,  at  the  most, 

Is  all  we  can  have  of  the  few  we  hold  dear ; 

And  oft  even  joy  is  unheeded  and  lost 

For  want  of  some  heart  that  could  echo  it, 
near. 

Ah,  well  may  we  hope,  when  this  short  life 
is  gone, 

To  meet  in  some  world  of  more  permanent 
bliss ; 

For  a smile,  or  a grasp  of  the  hand,  hast’ning 
on, 

Is  all  we  enjoy  of  each  other  in  this. 

But,  come,  the  more  rare  such  delights  to  the 
heart, 

The  more  we  should  welcome,  and  bless  them 
the  more ; 

They  ’re  ours,  when  we  meet — they  are  lost 
when  we  part — 

Like  birds  that  bring  Summer,  and  fly  when 
’t  is  o’er. 

Thus  circling  the  cup,  hand  in  hand,  ere  we 
drink, 

Let  Sympathy  pledge  us,  through  pleasure, 
through  pain, 

That,  fast  as  a feeling  but  touches  one  link, 

Her  magic  shall  send  it  direct  through  the 
chain. 

Thomas  Moobe. 


HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND  ? 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 

For  shame!  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys ; 
How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound. 

The  trumpets  sound ; 

The  colors  they  are  flying,  boys. 

To  fight,  kill,  or  wound, 

May  we  still  be  found 
Content  with  our  hard  fare,  my  boys, 

On  the  cold  ground. 

Why,  soldiers,  why 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys  ? 

Why,  soldiers,  why, 

Whose  business ’t is  to  die? 

What,  sighing?  fie! 


Don’t  fear,  drink  on,  be  jolly,  boys ! 

’T  is  he,  you,  or  I ! 

Cold,  hot,  wet  or  dry, 

We’re  always  bound  to  follow,  boys, 
And  scorn  to  fly. 

’T  is  but  in  vain — 

I mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys — 

’Tis  but  in  vain 

For  soldiers  to  complain : 

Should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  Him  who  made  us,  boys, 
We’re  free  from  pain! 

But  if  we  remain, 

A bottle  and  a kind  landlady 
Cure  all  again. 

Anonymous. 


COME,  SEND  ROUND  THE  WINE. 

Come,  send  round  the  wine,  and  leave  points 
of  belief 

To  simpleton  sages  and  reasoning  fools ; 

This  moment ’s  a flower  too  fair  and  brief 

To  be  withered  and  stained  by  the  dust  of  the 
schools. 

Your  glass  may  be  purple,  and  mine  may  be 
blue, 

But  while  they  are  filled  from  the  same  bright 
bowl, 

The  fool  who  would  quarrel  for  difference  of 
hue 

Deserves  not  the  comfort  they  shed  o’er  the 
soul. 

Shall  I ask  the  brave  soldier  who  fights  by 
my  side, 

In  the  cause  of  mankind,  if  our  creeds  agree  ? 

Shall  I give  up  the  friend  I have  valued  and 
tried, 

If  he  kneel  not  before  the  same  altar  with 
me? 

From  the  heretic  girl  of  my  soul  should  I fly 

To  seek  somewhere  else  a more  orthodox 
kiss? 

No ! perish  the  hearts  and  the  laws  that  try 

Truth,  valor,  or  love,  by  a standard  like  this! 

Thomas  Moobe. 


188  POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


FRIEND  OF  MY  SOUL. 


Friend  of  my  soul ! this  goblet  sip — 

’T  will  chase  the  pensive  tear ; 

’T  is  not  so  sweet  as  woman’s  lip, 

But,  0 ! ’t  is  more  sincere. 

Like  her  delusive  beam, 

’T  will  steal  away  the  mind, 

But  unlike  affection’s  dream, 

It  leaves  no  sting  behind. 

Come,  twine  the  wreath,  thy  brows  to  shade — 
These  flowers  trere  culled  at  noon ; 

Like  woman’s  love  the  rose  will  fade, 

But  ah ! not  half  so  soon : 

For  though  the  flower’s  decayed, 

Its  fragrance  is  not  o’er ; 

But  once  when  love’s  betrayed, 

The  heart  can  bloom  no  more. 

Thomas  Hoobk. 


TO  THOMAS  MOORE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the.  sea ; 

But,  before  I go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here ’s  a double  health  to  thee ! 

Here ’s  a sigh  for  those  that  love  me, 
And  a smile  for  those  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky ’s  above  me, 

Here ’s  a heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 

Though  a desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

.Were ’t  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I gasped  upon  the  brink, 

Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell 

’T  is  to  thee  that  I would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I would  pour 

Should  be — Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 
And  a health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  ! 

Loud  Byron. 


FAREWELL!  BUT  WHENEVER  YOB 
WELCOME  THE  HOUR. 

Farewell!  but  whenever  you  welcome  the 
hour 

That  awakens  the  night-song  of  mirth  in  your 
bower, 

Then  think  of  the  friend  who  once  welcomed 
it  too, 

And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with 
you. 

His  griefs  may  return — not  a hope  may  remain 

Of  the  few  that  have  brightened  his  pathway 
of  pain — 

But  he  ne’er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that 
threw 

Its  enchantment  around  him  while  lingering 
with  you ! 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure 
fills  up 

To  the  highest  top-sparkle  each  heart  and 
each  cup, 

Where’er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 

My  soul,  happy  friends!  shall  be  with  you 
that  night — 

Shall  join  in  your  revels,  your  sports,  and 
your  wiles, 

And  return  to  me  beaming  all  o’er  with  your 
smiles ; 

Too  blest  if  it  tells  me  that,  mid  the  gay 
cheer, 

Some  kind  voice  had  murmured,  “ I wish  he 
were  here  l ” 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst,  there  are  relics  of  joy, 

Bright  dreams  of  the  past,  which  she  cannot 
destroy ! 

Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and 
care, 

And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to 
wear. 

Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories 
fiUed! 

Like  the  vase  in  which  roses  have  once  been 
distilled ; 

You  may  break,  you  may  ruin  the  vase  if  you 
wiU, 

But  the  scent  of  the  roses  wfll  hang  round  it 
still. 

Thomas  Moork. 


THE  BALLAD  OF 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE. 

A street  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue  Neuve  des  petits  Champs  its  name  is — 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields ; 

And  there ’s  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 
But  still  in  comfortable  case — 

The  which  in  youth  I oft  attended, 

To  eat  a bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 

This  Bouillabaisse  a noble  dish  is — 

A sort  of  soup,  or  broth,  or  brew, 

Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo ; 

Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  muscles,  safiern, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace ; 

All  these  you  eat  at  Terre’s  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 

Indeed,  a rich  and  savory  stew ’t  is ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks, 

Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 
Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 

Nor  find  a fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a Bouillabaisse. 

I wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is  ? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is  as  before ; 

The  smiling,  red-cheeked  6caillere  is 
Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 

Is  Terre  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I recollect  his  droll  grimace ; 

He ’d  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hoped  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter;  nothing’s  changed  or  older. 

“How’s  Monsieur  Terr6,  waiter,  pray?” 
The  waiter  stares  and  shrugs  his  shoulder ; — 
“Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a day.” 

“ It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner. 

So  honest  Terr6 ’s  run  his  race  S ” 

“ What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner  ? ” 

“ Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ? ” 

“Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,”  ’s  the  waiter’s  answer; 

“ Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ? ” 

“ Tell  me  a good  one.”  “ That  I can,  sir ; 
The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal.” 


BOUILLABAISSE.  189 

“ So  Terre’s  gone,”  I say,  and  sink  in 
My  old  accustomed  corner-place ; 

“He ’s  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 
With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse.” 

My  old  accustomed  corner  here  is — 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 

Ah ! vanished  many  a busy  year  is, 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I took. 
When  first  I saw  ye,  Gari  luoghi , 

I ’d  scarce  a beard  upon  my  face, 

And  now  a grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 

I sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 

Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 
Of  early  days,  here  met  to  dine  ? 

Come,  waiter ! quick,  a flagon  crusty — 

I ’ll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 

The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 
My  memory  can  quick  retrace ; 

Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 
And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 

There ’s  Jack  has  made  a wondrous  marriage ; 

There ’s  laughing  Tom  is  laughing  yet ; 
There ’s  brave  Augustus  drives  his  carriage ; 

There ’s  poor  old  Fred  in  the  Gazette ; 

On  James’s  head  the  grass  is  growing : 

Good  Lord ! the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 

Ah  me ! how  quick  the  days  are  flitting ! 

I mind  me  of  a time  that ’s  gone, 

When  here  I ’d  sit,  as  now  I ’m  sitting, 

In  this  same  place — hut  not  alone. 

A fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 

A dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me. 
— There ’s  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

* * * * 

I drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes ; 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 
In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 

Welcome  the  wine,  whate’er  the  seal  is ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate’er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse ! 

William  Makepeace  Tiiackeeay. 


190 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


O FILL  THE  WINE-CUP  HIGH ! 

0 fill  the  wine-cup  high  ! 

The  sparkling  liquor  pour ; 

For  we  will  care  and  grief  defy, 

They  ne’er  shall  plague  us  more 
And  ere  the  snowy  foam 
From  off  the  wine  departs, 

The  precious  draught  shall  find  a home, 
A dwelling  in  our  hearts. 

Though  bright  may  he  the  beams 
That  woman’s  eyes  display : 

They  are  not  like  the  ruby  gleams 
That  in  our  goblets  play. 

For  though  surpassing  bright 
Their  brilliancy  may  be, 

Age  dims  the  lustre  of  their  light 
But  adds  more  worth  to  thee. 

Give  me  another  draught, 

The  sparkling,  and  the  strong ; 

He  who  would  learn  the  poet  craft — 

He  who  would  shine  in  song — 

Should  pledge  the  flowing  bowl 
With  warm  and  generous  wine ; 

’Twas  wine  that  warmed  Anacreon’s  soul, 
And  made  his  songs  divine. 

And  e’en  in  tragedy, 

Who  lives  that  never  knew 
The  honey  of  the  Attic  Bee 
Was  gathered  from  thy  dew? 

He  of  the  tragic  muse, 

Whose  praises  bards  rehearse ; 

What  power  but  thine  could  e’er  diffuse 
Such  sweetness  o’er  his  verse  ? 

0 would  that  I could  raise 
The  magic  of  that  tongue ; 

The  spirit  of  those  deathless  lays, 

The  Swan  of  Teios  sung ! 

Each  song  the  bard  has  given 
Its  beauty  and  its  worth, 

Sounds  sweet  as  if  a voice  from  heaven 
Was  echoed  upon  the  earth. 

How  mighty — how  divine, 

Thy  spirit  seemeth  when 
The  rich  draught  of  the  purple  vine 
Dwelt  in  these  godlike  men. 


It  made  each  glowing  page, 

Its  eloquence,  and  truth, 

In  the  glory  of  their  golden  age, 
Outshine  the  fire  of  youth. 

Joy  to  the  lone  heart — -joy 
To  the  desolate — oppressed ; 

For  wine  can  every  grief  destroy 
That  gathers  in  the  breast. 

The  sorrows  and  the  care, 

That  in  our  hearts  abide, 

’T  will  chase  them  from  their  dwellings 
there, 

To  drown  them  in  its  tide. 

And  now  the  heart  grows  warm 
With  feelings  undefined, 

Throwing  their  deep  diffusive  charn 
O’er  all  the  realms  of  mind. 

The  loveliness  of  truth 
Flings  out  its  brightest  rays, 

Clothed  in  the  songs  of  early  youth, 

Or  joys  of  other  days. 

We  think  of  her,  the  young, 

The  beautiful,  the  bright, 

We  hear  the  music  of  her  tongue, 
Breathing  its  deep  delight. 

We  see  again  each  glance, 

Each  bright  and  dazzling  beam, 

We  feel  our  throbbing  hearts  still  dance, 
We  live  but  in  a dream. 

From  darkness,  and  from  woe, 

A power  like  lightning  darts  • 

A glory  cometh  down  to  throw 
Its  shadows  o’er  our  hearts ; 

And  dimmed  by  falling  tears, 

A spirit  seems  to  rise, 

That  shows  the  friend  of  other  years 
Is  mirrored  in  our  eyes. 

But  sorrow,  grief,  and  care, 

Had  dimmed  his  setting  star; 

And  we  think  with  tears  of  those  that 
were, 

To  smile  on  those  that  are. 

Yet  though  the  grassy  mound 
Sits  lightly  on  his  head, 

We’ll  pledge,  in  solemn  silence  round, 
The  memory  of  the  dead ! 


SAINT  PERAY. 


191 


The  sparkling  juice  now  pour, 

With  fond  and  liberal  hand ; 

O raise  the  laughing  rim  once  more, 
Here ’s  to  our  Fatherland ! 

Up,  every  soul  that  hears, 

Hurrah ! with  three  times  three ; 

And  shout  aloud,  with  deafening  cheers, 
The  “Island  of  the  Free ! ” 

Then  fill  the  wine-cup  high, 

The  sparkling  liquor  pour ; 

For  we  will  care  and  grief  defy, 

They  ne’er  shall  plague  us  more, 

And  ere  the  snowy  foam 
From  off  the  wine  departs, 

The  precious  draught  shall  find  a home — 
A dwelling  in  our  hearts. 

Eobert  Folkestone  Williams. 


SAINT  PERAY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  H.  T.  P. 

When  to  any  saint  I pray, 

It  shall  be  to  Saint  Peray. 

He  alone,  of  all  the  brood, 

Ever  did  me  any  good : 

Many  I have  tried  that  are 
Humbugs  in  the  calendar. 

On  the  Atlantic,  faint  and  sick, 

Once  I prayed  Saint  Dominick : 

He  was  holy,  sure,  and  wise ; — 

Was’t  not  he  that  did  devise 
Auto  da  Fes  and  rosaries? — 

But  for  one  in  my  condition 
This  good  saint  was  no  physician. 

Next,  in  pleasant  Normandie, 

I made  a prayer  to  Saint  Denis, 

In  the  great  cathedral,  where 
All  the  ancient  kings  repose ; 

But,  how  I was  swindled  there 
At  the  “ Golden  Fleece,” — he  knows ! 

In  my  wanderings,  vague  and  various, 
Reaching  Naples — as  I lay 
Watching  Vesuvius  from  the  bay, 

I besought  Saint  Januarius. 


But  I was  a fool  to  try  him ; 

Naught  I said  could  liquefy  him ; 

And  I swear  he  did  me  wrong, 
Keeping  me  shut  up  so  long 
In  that  pest-house,  with  obscene 
Jews  and  Greeks  and  things  unclean— 
What  need  had  I of  quarantine  ? 

In  Sicily  at  least  a score — 

In  Spain  about  as  many  more — 

And  in  Rome  almost  as  many 
As  the  loves  of  Don  Giovanni, 

Did  I pray  to — sans  reply ; 

Devil  take  the  tribe ! — said  I. 

Worn  with  travel,  tired  and  lame, 

To  Assisi’s  walls  I came : 

Sad  and  full  of  homesick  fancies, 

I addressed  me  to  Saint  Francis ; 

But  the  beggar  never  did 
Any  thing  as  he  was  bid, 

Never  gave  me  aught — but  fleas — 
Plenty  had  I at  Assise. 

But  in  Provence,  near  Vaucluse, 

Hard  by  the  Rhone,  I found  a Saint 
Gifted  with  a wondrous  juice, 

Potent  for  the  worst  complaint. 

’T  was  at  Avignon  that  first — 

In  the  witching  time  of  thirst — 

To  my  brain  the  knowledge  came 
Of  this  blessed  Catholic’s  name ; 

Forty  miles  of  dust  that  day 
Made  me  welcome  Saint  Peray. 

Though  till  then  I had  not  heard 
Aught  about  him,  ere  a third 
Of  a litre  passed  my  lips, 

All  saints  else  were  in  eclipse. 

For  his  gentle  spirit  glided 
With  such  magic  into  mine, 

That  methought  such  bliss  as  I did 
Poet  never  drew  from  wine. 

Rest  he  gave  me,  and  refection — 
Chastened  hopes,  calm  retrospection — 
Softened  images  of  sorrow, 

Bright  forebodings  for  the  morrow — 
Charity  for  what  is  past — 

Faith  in  something  good  at  last. 

Now,  why  should  any  almanack 
The  name  of  this  good  creature  lack  ? 


192 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


Or  wherefore  should  the  breviary 
Omit  a saint  so  sage  and  merry  ? 

The  Pope  himself  should  grant  a day 
Especially  to  Saint  Peray. 

But,  since  no  day  hath  been  appointed, 
On  purpose,  by  the  Lord’s  anointed, 

Let  us  not  wait — we  ’ll  do  him  right ; 
Send  round  your  bottles,  Hal — and  set 
your  night. 

Thomas  William  P arsons. 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

i. 

Should  auid  acquaintance  he  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  min’  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  days  o’  lang  syne  ? 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We  ’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

H. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pu’d  the  gowans  fine  ; 

But  we ’ve  wandered  mony  a weary  foot 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

m. 

We  twa  hae  paidl’t  i’  the  burn 
Frae  mornin’  sun  till  dine ; 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roared 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

rv. 

And  here ’s  a hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie ’s  a hand  o’  thine ; 

And  we’ll  tak  a right  guid  willie-waught 
For  auld  lang  syne ! 

v. 

And  surely  ye  ’ll  be  your  pint-stowp, 
And  surely  I ’ll  he  mine ; 

And  we  ’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet 
For  auld  lang  syne. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne, 

We  ’ll  tak  a cup  o’  kindness  yet, 

For  auld  lang  syne ! 

Robirt  Burns. 


NIGHT  AT  SEA. 

The  lovely  purple  of  the  noon’s  bestowing 
Has  vanished  from  the  waters,  where  it 
flung 

A royal  color,  such  as  gems  are  throwing 
Tyrian  or  regal  garniture  among. 

’T  is  night,  and  overhead  the  sky  is  gleaming, 
Thro’  the  slight  vapor  trembles  each  dim 
star; 

I turn  away — my  heart  is  sadly  dreaming 
Of  scenes  they  do  not  light,  of  scenes  afar. 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I think  of  you  ? 

By  each  dark  wave  around  the  vessel  sweep- 
ing, 

Farther  am  I from  old  dear  friends  re- 
moved ; 

Till  the  lone  vigil  that  I now  am  keeping, 

I did  not  know  how  much  you  were  be- 
loved. 

How  many  acts  of  kindness  little  heeded, 
Kind  looks,  kind  words,  rise  half  reproach- 
ful now ! 

Hurried  and  anxious,  my  vexed  life  has 
speeded, 

And  memory  wears  a soft  accusing  brow. 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I think  of  you  ? 

The  very  stars  are  strangers,  as  I catch  them 
Athwart  the  shadowy  sails  that  swell 
above ; 

I cannot  hope  that  other  eyes  will  watch  them 
At  the  same  moment  with  a mutual  love. 

They  shine  not  there,  as  here  they  now  are 
shining ; 

The  very  hours  are  changed. — Ah,  do  ye 
sleep  ? 

O’er  each  home  pillow  midnight  is  declining — 
May  some  kind  dream  at  least  my  image 
keep  1 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I think  of  you  ? 

Yesterday  has  a charm,  To-day  could  never 
Fling  o’er  the  mind,  which  knows  not  till 
it  parts 


NIGHT 

AT  SEA.  193 

How  it  turns  back  with  tenderest  endeavor 

Like  some  new  island  on  the  ocean  spring- 

To fix  the  past  within  the  heart  of  hearts. 

ing, 

Absence  is  full  of  memory,  it  teaches 

Floats  on  the  surface  some  gigantic  whale, 

The  value  of  all  old  familiar  things ; 

From  its  vast  head  a silver  fountain  flinging, 

The  strengthener  of  affection,  while  it 

Bright  as  the  fountain  in  a fairy  tale. 

reaches 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

O’er  the  dark  parting,  with  an  angel’s 

I read  such  fairy  legends  while  with 

wings. 

you. 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I think  of  you  ? 

Light  is  amid  the  gloomy  canvas  spreading, 

The  world,  with  one  vast  element  omitted — 

The  moon  is  whitening  the  dusky  sails, 
From  the  thick  bank  of  clouds  she  masters, 

Man’s  own  especial  element,  the  earth ; 

shedding 

Yet,  o’er  the  waters  is  his  rule  transmitted 

The  softest  influence  that  o’er  night  pre- 

By that  great  knowledge  whence  has  power 

vails. 

its  birth. 

Pale  is  she  like  a young  queen  pale  with 

How  oft  on  some  strange  loveliness  while 

splendor, 

gazing, 

Haunted  with  passionate  thoughts  too  fond, 

Have  I wished  for  you — beautiful  as  new, 

too  deep ; 

The  purple  waves  like  some  wild  army  rais- 

The  very  glory  that  she  wears  is  tender, 

ing 

The  very  eyes  that  watch  her  beauty  fain 

Their  snowy  banners  as  the  ship  cuts 

would  weep. 

through. 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I think  of  you  ? 

Do  you  think  of  me,  as  I think  of  you  ? 

Bearing  upon  its  wings  the  hues  of  morn- 

Sunshine is  ever  cheerful,  when  the  morning 
Wakens  the  world  with  cloud-dispelling 

ing, 

eyes; 

Up  springs  the  flying  fish  like  life’s  false 

The  spirits  mount  to  glad  endeavor,  scorning 

joy, 

What  toil  upon  a path  so  sunny  lies. 

Which  of  the  sunshine  asks  that  frail  adorn- 

Sunshine and  hope  are  comrades,  and  their 

ing 

weather 

Whose  very  light  is  fated  to  destroy. 

Calls  into  life  an  energy  like  Spring’s ; 

Ah,  so  doth  genius  on  its  rainbow  pinion 

But  memory  and  moonlight  go  together, 

Spring  from  the  depths  of  an  unkindly 

Reflected  in  the  light  that  either  brings. 

world ; 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

So  spring  sweet  fancies  from  the  heart’s 

Do  you  think  of  me,  then  ? I think 

dominion — 

of  you. 

Too  soon  in  death  the  scorched-up  wing  is 

furled. 

The  busy  deck  is  hushed,  no  sounds  are 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

waking 

Whate’er  I see  is  linked  with  thoughts 

But  the  watch  pacing  silently  and  slow ; 

of  you. 

The  waves  against  the  sides  incessant  break- 

No life  is  in  the  air,  but  in  the  waters 

ing, 

And  rope  and  canvas  swaying  to  and  fro. 

Are  creatures,  huge,  and  terrible  and 

The  topmast  sail,  it  seems  like  some  dim  pin 

strong ; 

nacle 

The  sword-fish  and  the  shark  pursue  their 

Cresting  a shadowy  tower  amid  the  air ; 

slaughters, 

While  red  and  fitful  gleams  come  from  the 

War  universal  reigns  these  depths  along. 

binnacle, 

13 

194 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


The  only  light  on  hoard  to  guide  us — 
where  ? 

My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

Far  from  my  native  land,  and  far  from 
you. 

On  one  side  of  the  ship,  the  moonbeam’s 
shimmer 

In  luminous  vibrations  sweeps  the  sea, 

But  where  the  shadow  falls,  a strange,  pale 
glimmer 

Seems,  glow-worm  like,  amid  the  waves 
to  be. 

All  that  the  spirit  keeps  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing* 

Takes  visionary  hues  from  such  an  hour ; 

But  while  some  phantasy  is  o’er  me  stealing, 

I start — remembrance  has  a keener  power : 
My  friends,  my  absent  friends  ! 

From  the  fair  dream  I start  to  think 
of  you. 

A dusk  line  in  the  moonlight — I discover 

What  all  day  long  vainly  I sought  to  catcb ; 

Or  is  it  but  the  varying  clouds  that  hover 

Thick  in  the  air,  to  mock  the  eyes  that 
watch  ? 

No;  well  the  sailor  knows  each  speck,  ap- 
pearing, 

Upon  the  tossing  waves,  the  far-off  strand ; 

To  that  dark  line  our  eager  ship  is  steering. 

Her  voyage  done — to-morrow  we  shall 
land. 

L^txtia  Elizabeth  Maclean. 


THE  MAHOGANY  TREE. 

Chkistmas  is  here ; 
Winds  whistle  shrill, 

Icy  and  chill, 

Little  care  we ; 

Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom ; 
Night-birds  are  we ; 


Here  we  carouse, 

Singing,  like  them, 

Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 

Here  let  us  sport, 

Boys,  as  we  sit — 

Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 

Life  is  but  short — 

When  we  are  gone, 

Let  them  sing  on, 

Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew. 

Happy  as  this ; 

Faces  we  miss, 

Pleasant  to  see. 

Kind  hearts  and  true, 

Gentle  and  just, 

Peace  to  your  dust ! 

We  sing  round  the  tree. 

Care,  like  a dun, 

Lurks  at  the  gate : 

Let  the  dog  wait ; 

Happy  we  ’ll  be ! 

Drink,  every  one ; 

Pile  up  the  coals ; 

Fill  the  red  bowls, 

Round  the  old  tree ! 

Drain  we  the  cup. — 

Friend,  art  afraid  ? 

Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 

Mantle  it  up ; 

Empty  it  yet ; 

Let  us  forget, 

Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone! 

Life  and  its  ills, 

Duns  and  their  bills, 

Bid  we  to  flee. 

Come  with  the  dawn, 

Blue-devil  sprite ; 

Leave  us  to-night, 

Round  the  old  tree ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


CHRISTMAS. 


195 


UNDER  THE  HOLLY  BOUGH. 

A SONG  FOR  CHRISTMAS. 

Ye  who  have  scorned  each  other, 

Or  injured  friend  or  brother, 

In  this  fast  fading  year ; 

Ye  who,  by  word  or  deed, 

Have  made  a kind  heart  bleed, 

Come  gather  here ! 

Let  sinned  against,  and  sinning, 

Forget  their  strife’s  beginning, 

And  join  in  friendship  now — 

Be  links  no  longer  broken ; — • 

Be  sweet  forgiveness  spoken 
Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

ii. 

Ye  who  have  loved  each  other, 

Sister,  and  friend,  and  brother, 

In  this  fast  fading  year  : 

Mother  and  sire  and  child, 

Young  man,  and  maiden  mild, 

Come  gather  here ; 

And  let  your  hearts  grow  fonder, 

As  memory  shall  ponder 
Each  past  unbroken  vow. 

Old  loves  and  younger  wooing 
Are  sweet  in  the  renewing,. 

Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

m. 

Ye  who  have  nourished  sadness, 
Estranged  from  hope  and  gladness, 

In  this  fast  fading  year ; 

Ye  with  o’erburdened  mind 
Made  aliens  from  your  kind, 

Come  gather  here. 

Let  not  the  useless  sorrow 
Pursue  you  night  and  morrow. 

If  e’er  you  hoped,  hope  now — 

Take  heart ; — uncloud  your  faces, 

And  join  in  our  embraces 
Under  the  Holly  Bough. 

Charles  Mackat. 


CHRISTMAS. 

So  now  is  come  our  joyful’st  feast ; 

Let  every  man  be  jolly  ; 

Each  room  with  ivy  leaves  is  drest, 

And  every  post  with  holly. 

Though  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine, 
Round  your  foreheads  garlands  twine, 

Drown  sorrow  in  a cup  of  wine, 

And  let  us  all  be  merry. 

Now  all  our  neighbors’  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning ; 

Their  ovens  they  with  baked  meat  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie ; 

And  if  for  cold  it  hap  to  die, 

We  ’ll  bury ’t  in  a Christmas  pie, 

And  evermore  be  merry. 

Now  every  lad  is  wond’rous  trim, 

And  no  man  minds  his  labor ; 

Our  lasses  have  provided  them 
A bagpipe  and  a tabor ; 

Young  men  and  maids,  and  girls  and  boys, 
Give  life  to  one  another’s  joys ; 

And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 
Perceive  that  they  are  merry. 

Rank  misers  now  do  sparing  shun — 

Their  hall  of  music  soundeth  ; 

And  dogs  thence  with  whole  shoulders  run, 
So  all  things  there  aboundeth. 

The  country  folks  themselves  advance, 

With  crowdy-muttons  out  of  France ; 

And  Jack  shall  pipe,  and  Gill  shall  dance, 
And  all  the  town  be  merry. 

Ned  Squash  has  fetched  his  bands  from  pawn, 
And  all  his  best  apparel ; 

Brisk  Nell  hath  bought  a ruff  of  lawn 
With  dropping  of  the  barrel. 

And  those  that  hardly  all  the  year 
Had  bread  to  eat,  or  rags  to  wear, 

Will  have  both  clothes  and  dainty  fare, 

And  all  the  day  be  merry. 

Now  poor  men  to  the  justices 
With  capons  make  their  errants ; 

And  if  they  hap  to  fail  of  these, 

They  plague  them  with  their  warrants : 


196 


POEMS  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 


But  now  they  feed  them  with  good  cheer, 
And  what  they  want  they  take  in  beer ; 

For  Christmas  comes  hut  once  a year, 

And  then  they  shall  be  merry. 

Good  farmers  in  the  country  nurse 
The  poor,  that  else  were  undone ; 

Some  landlords  spend  their  money  worse, 
On  lust  and  pride  at  London. 

There  the  roysters  they  do  play, 

Drab  and  dice  their  lands  away, 

Which  may  be  ours  another  day, 

And  therefore  let ’s  he  merry. 

The  client  now  his  suit  forbears  ; 

The  prisoner’s  heart  is  eased ; 

The  debtor  drinks  away  his  cares, 

And  for  the  time  is  pleased. 

Though  others’  purses  be  more  fat, 

Why  should  we  pine  or  grieve  at  that  ? 

Hang  sorrow  ! Care  will  kill  a cat — 

And  therefore  let ’s  be  merry. 

Hark ! now  the  wags  abroad  do  call 
Each  other  forth  to  rambling ; 

Anon  you’ll  see  them  in  the  hall, 

For  nuts  and  apples  scrambling. 

Hark ! how  the  roofs  with  laughter  sound ! 
Anon  they  ’ll  think  the  house  goes  round, 
For  they  the  cellar’s  depth  have  found, 

And  there  they  will  be  merry. 

The  wenches  with  their  wassail  bowls 
About  the  streets  are  singing ; 

The  boys  are  come  to  catch  the  owls 
The  wild  mare  in  is  bringing. 

Our  kitchen  boy  hath  broke  his  box ; 

And  to  the  dealing  of  the  ox 

Our  honest  neighbors  come  by  flocks, 

And  here  they  will  be  merry. 

Now  kings  and  queens  poor  sheepcotes  have, 
And  mate  with  every  body ; 

The  honest  now  may  play  the  knave, 

And  wise  men  play  the  noddy. 

Some  youths  will  now  a mumming  go, 

Some  others  play  at  Rowland-bo, 

And  twenty  other  game  boys  mo, 

Because  they  will  be  merry. 


Then  wherefore,  in  these  merry  days, 
Should  we,  I pray,  be  duller  ? 

No  let  us  sing  some  roundelays, 

To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller : 

And,  while  we  thus  inspired  sing, 

Let  all  the  streets  with  echoes  ring ; 

Woods  and  hills,  and  every  thing. 

Bear  witness  we  are  merry ! 

Geobge  Witheb. 


WHAT  MIGHT  BE  DONE. 

What  might  be  done  if  men  were  wise — 
What  glorious  deeds,  my  suffering  brother. 
Would  they  unite 
In  love  and  right, 

And  cease  their  scorn  of  one  another  ? 

Oppression’s  heart  might  be  imbued 
With  kindling  drops  of  loving-kindness ; 
And  knowledge  pour, 

From  shore  to  shore, 

Light  on  the  eyes  of  mental  blindness. 

All  slavery,  warfare,  lies,  and  wrongs, 

All  vice  and  crime,  might  die  together ; 
And  wine  and  corn, 

To  each  man  born, 

Be  free  as  warmth  in  summer  weather. 

The  meanest  wretch  that  ever  trod, 

The  deepest  sunk  in  guilt  and  sorrow, 
Might  stand  erect 
In  self-respect, 

And  share  the  teeming  world  to-morrow. 

What  might  be  done  ? This  might  be  done, 
And  more  than  this,  my  suffering  brother— 
More  than  the  tongue 
E’er  said  or  sung, 

If  men  were  wise  and  loved  each  other. 


Chables  Mackay. 


PART  IV. 


POEMS 


OF  LOVE. 


Love  ? I will  tell  thee  what  it  is  to  love ! 

It  is  to  build  with  human  thoughts  a shrine, 

Where  Hope  sits  brooding  like  a beauteous  dove ; 

Where  Time  seems  young,  and  Life  a thing  divine. 

All  tastes,  all  pleasures,  all  desires  combine 
To  consecrate  this  sanctuary  of  bliss. 

Above,  the  stars  in  cloudless  beauty  shine ; 

Around,  the  streams  their  flowery  margins  kiss ; 

And  if  there ’s  heaven  on  earth,  that  heaven  is  surely  this. 

Yes,  this  is  Love,  the  steadfast  and  the  true, 

The  immortal  glory  which  hath  never  set ; 

The  best,  the  brightest  boon  the  heart  e’er  knew  : 

Of  all  life’s  sweets  the  very  sweetest  yet ! 

0 ! who  but  can  recall  the  eve  they  met 

To  breathe,  in  some  green  walk,  their  first  young  vow  ? 

While  summer  flowers  with  moonlight  dews  were  wet, 

And  winds  sighed  soft  around  the  mountain’s  brow, 

And  all  was  rapture  then  which  is  but  memory  now ! 

Charles  Swaih. 


« 


POEMS  OF  LOVE 


*> 


SIR  CAULIHE. 

THE  FIEST  PAET. 

In  Ireland,  ferr  over  the  sea, 

There  dwelleth  a bonnye  kinge ; 

And  with  him  a yon g and  comlye  knighte, 
Men  call  him  Syr  Cauline. 

The  kinge  had  a ladye  to  his  daughter, 

In  fashyon  she  hath  no  peere ; 

And  princely  wightes  that  ladye  wooed 
To  he  theyr  wedded  fere. 

Syr  Cauline  loveth  her  best  of  all, 

But  nothing  durst  he  saye, 

He  descreeve  his  counsayl  to  no  man, 

But  deerlye  he  lovde  this  may. 

Till  on  a daye  it  so  beffell 
Great  dill  to  him  was  dight ; 

The  mayden’s  love  removde  his  mind, 

To  care-bed  went  the  knighte. 

One  while  he  spred  his  armes  him  fro, 

One  while  he  spred  them  nye : 

“And  aye ! but  I winne  that  ladye’s  love, 
For  dole  now  I mun  dye.” 

And  whan  our  parish-masse  was  done, 

Our  kinge  was  bowne  to  dyne : 

He  sayes,  “ Where  is  Syr  Cauline, 

That  is  wont  to  serve  the  wyne  ? ” 

Then  aunswerde  him  a courteous  knighte, 
And  fast  his  handes  gan  wringe : 

“ Syr  Cauline  is  sicke,  and  like  to  dye, 
Without  a good  leechinge.” 


“Fetche  me  downe  my  daughter  deere, 

She  is  a leeche  fulle  fine ; 

Goe  take  him  doughe  and  the  baken  bread, 

And  serve  him  with  the  wyne  soe  red : 
Lothe  I were  him  to  tine.” 

Fair  Christabelle  to  his  chaumber  goes, 

Her  maydens  followyng  nye : 

“O  well,”  she  sayth,  “how  doth  my  lord? 
“ 0 sicke,  thou  fayr  ladye.” 

“Howe  ryse  up  wightlye,  man,  for  shame, 
Never  lye  soe  cowardlee; 

For  it  is  told  in  my  father’s  halle 
You  dye  for  love  of  mee.” 

“Fayre  ladye,  it  is  for  your  love 
That  all  this  dill  I drye : 

For  if  you  wold  comfort  me  with  a kisse, 

Then  were  I brought  from  bale  to  blisse, 
Ho  lenger  wold  I lye.” 

“ Syf  knighte,  my  father  is  a kinge, 

I am  his  onlye  heire ; 

Alas ! and  well  you  knowe,  syr  knighte, 

I never  can  be  youre  fere.” 

“ O ladye,  thou  art  a kinge’s  daughter, 

And  I am  not  thy  peere ; 

But  let  me  doe  some  deedes  of  armes, 

To  be  your  bacheleere.” 

“Some  deedes  of  armes  if  thou  wilt  doe, 

My  bacheleere  to  bee 

(But  ever  and  aye  my  heart  wold  rue, 

Giff  harm  should  happe  to  thee,) 


200 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


“ Upon  Eldridge  hill  there  groweth  a thorne, 
Upon  the  mores  brodinge ; 

And  dare  ye,  syr  knighte,  wake  there  all 
nighte, 

Untill  the  fayre  morninge  ? 

“For  the  Eldridge  knighte,  so  mickle  of 
mighte, 

Will  examine  you  beforne ; 

And  never  man  bare  life  awaye, 

But  he  did  him  scath  and  scorne. 

“That  knighte  he  is  a foul  paynim, 

And  large  of  limb  and  bone ; 

And  but  if  heaven  may  be  thy  speede, 

Thy  life  it  is  but  gone.” 

“ Nowe  on  the  Eldridge  hilles  He  walke, 

For  thy  sake,  fair  ladie ; 

And  He  either  bring  you  a ready  token, 

Or  lie  never  more  you  see.” 

The  lady  is  gone  to  her  own  chaumbere, 

Her  maydens  following  bright ; 

Syr  Cauline  lope  from  care-bed  soone, 

And  to  the  Eldridge  hills  is  gone, 

For  to  wake  there  all  night. 

Unto  midnight,  that  the  moone  did  rise, 

He  walked  up  and  downe ; 

Then  a lightsome  bugle  heard  he  blowe 
Over  the  bents  soe  browne ; 

Quoth  hee,  “ If  cryance  come  till  my  heart, 

I am  farre  from  any  good  towne.” 

And  soone  he  spyde  on  the  mores  so  broad 
A furyous  wight  and  fell ; 

A ladye  bright  his  brydle  led, 

Clad  in  a fayre  kyrtell : 

And  soe  fast  he  called  on  Syr  Cauline, 

“ O man,  I rede  thee  flye, 

For  but  if  cryance  come  till  thy  heart, 

I weene  but  thou  mun  dye.” 

He  sayth,  “ Ho  cryance  comes  till  my  heart, 
Nor,  in  faith,  I wyll  not  flee ; 

For,  cause  thou  minged  not  Christ  before, 

The  less  me  dreadeth  thee.” 


The  Eldridge  knighte,  he  pricked  his  steed ; 
Syr  Cauline  bold  abode : 

Then  either  shooke  his  trustye  speare, 

And  the  timber  these  two  children  bare 
Soe  soone  in  sunder  slode. 

Then  tooke  they  out  theyr  two  good  swordes 
And  layden  on  full  faste, 

Till  helme  and  hawberke,  mail  and  sheelde, 
They  all  were  well-nighe  brast. 

The  Eldridge  knight  was  mickle  of  might, 
And  stiffe  in  stower  did  stande ; 

But  Syr  Cauline  with  an  aukeward  stroke 
He  smote  off  his  right-hand ; 

That  soone  he,  with  paine,  and  lacke  of  bloud, 
Fell  downe  on  that  lay-land. 

Then  up  Syr  Cauline  lift  his  brande 
All  over  his  head  so  hye : 

“And  here  I sweare  by  the  holy  roode, 

No  we,  caytiffe,  thou  shalt  dye.” 

Then  up  and  came  that  ladye  brighte, 

Faste  wringing  of  her  hande : 

“For  the  mayden’s  love,  that  most  you  love, 
Withold  that  deadlye  brande : 

“For  the  mayden’s  love,  that  most  you  love, 
Now  smyte  no  more  I praye ; 

And  aye  whatever  thou  wilt,  my  lord, 

He  shall  thy  hests  obaye.” 

“Now  sweare  to  mee,  thou  Eldridge  knighte, 
And  here  on  this  lay-land, 

That  thou  wilt  believe  on  Christ  his  laye, 
And  therto  plight  thy  hand : 

“And  that  thou  never  on  Eldfidge  hill  come 
To  sporte,  gamon,  or  playe ; 

And  that  thou  here  give  up  thy  armes 
Until  thy  dying  daye.” 

The  Eldridge  knighte  gave  up  his  armes, 

With  many  a sorrowfulle  sighe ; 

And  sware  to  obey  Syr  Cauline’s  hest, 

Till  the  tyme  that  he  shold  dye. 

And  he  then  up,  and  the  Eldridge  knighte 
Sett  him  in  his  saddle  anone ; 

And  the  Eldridge  knighte  and  his  ladye,  " 
To  theyr  castle  are  they  gone. 


SIR  CAULINE. 


Then  he  tooke  up  the  bloudy  hand, 

That  was  so  large  of  bone, 

And  on  it  he  founde  five  ringes  of  gold, 

Of  knightes  that  had  be  slone. 

Then  he  tooke  up  the  Eldridge  sworde, 

As  hard  as  any  flint ; 

And  he  tooke  off  those  ringes  five, 

As  bright  as  fyre  and  brent. 

Home  then  pricked  Syr  Cauline, 

As  light  as  leafe  on  tree ; 

I-wys  he  neither  stint  ne  blanne, 

Till  he  his  ladye  see. 

Then  downe  he  knelt  upon  his  knee, 

Before  that  lady  gay  : 

“ O ladye,  I have  bin  on  the  Eldridge  hills ; 
These  tokens  I bring  away.” 

“How  welcome,  welcome,  Syr  Cauline, 
Thrice  welcome  unto  mee, 

For  now  I perceive  thou  art  a true  knighte, 
Of  valour  bolde  and  free.” 

“ O ladye,  I am  thy  own  true  knighte, 

Thy  hests  for  to  obaye ; 

And  mought  I hope  to  winne  thy  love ! ” — 
Ho  more  his  tonge  colde  say. 

The  ladye  blushed  scarlette  redde, 

And  fette  a gentill  sighe : 

“Alas!  syr  knight,  how  may  this  bee, 

For  my  degree ’s  soe  highe  ? 

“ But  sith  thou  hast  hight,  thou  comely  youth, 
To  be  my  bachelere, 

lie  promise,  if  thee  I may  not  wedde, 

I will  have  none  other  fere.” 

Then  shee  held  forthe  her  liley-  white  hand 
Towards  that  knighte  so  free ; 

He  gave  to  it  one  gentill  kisse, 

His  heart  was  brought  from  bale  to  blisse, 
The  teares  sterte  from  his  ee. 

“ But  keep  my  counsayl,  Syr  Cauline, 

He  let  no  man  it  knowe ; 

For,  and  ever  my  father  sholde  it  ken, 

I wot  he  wolde  us  sloe.” 


20i 

From  that  daye  forthe,  that  ladye  fay  re 
Lovde  Syr  Cauline  the  knighte ; 

From  that  daye  forthe,  he  only  joy de 
Whan  shee  was  in  his  sight. 

Yea,  and  oftentimes  they  mette 
Within  a fayre  arboure, 

Where  they,  in  love  and  sweet  daliaunce, 
Past  manye  a pleasaunt  houre. 


THE  SECOND  PAET. 

Everye  white  will  have  its  blacke, 

And  everye  sweete  its  sowre : 

This  founde  the  ladye  Christabelle 
In  an  untimely  howre. 

For  so  it  befelle,  as  Syr  Cauline 
Was  with  that  ladye  faire, 

The  kinge,  her  father,  walked  forthe 
To  take  the  evenyng  aire : 

And  into  the  arboure  as  he  went 
To  rest  his  wearye  feet, 

He  found  his  daughter  and  Syr  Cauline 
There  sette  in  daliaunce  sweet. 

The  kinge  hee  sterted  forthe,  i-wys, 

And  an  angrye  man  was  hee : 

“Howe,  traytoure,  thou  shalt  hange  or  drawe, 
And  re  we  shall  thy  ladie.” 

Then  forthe  Syr  Cauline  he  was  ledde, 

And  throwne  in  dungeon  deepe ; 

And  the  ladye  into  a towre  so  hye, 

There  left  to  wayle  and  weepe. 

The  queene  she  was  Syr  Cauline’s  friend, 
And  to  the  kinge  sayd  shee : 

“ I pray  you  save  Syr  Cauline’s  life, 

And  let  him  banisht  bee.” 

“How,  dame,  that  traitor  shall  be  sent 
Across  the  salt-sea  fome ; 

But  here  I will  make  thee  a band, 

If  ever  he  come  within  this  land, 

A foule  deathe  is  his  doome.” 


202 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


All  woe-begone  was  that  gentil  knight 
To  parte  from  his  ladye ; 

And  many  a time  he  sighed  sore, 

And  cast  a wistfulle  eye : 

“Faire  Christabelle,  from  thee  to  parte, 
Farre  lever  had  I dye.” 

Faire  Christabelle,  that  ladye  bright, 

Was  had  forthe  of  the  towre ; 

But  ever  shee  droopeth  in  her  minde, 

As  nipt  by  an  ungentle  winde 
Doth  some  faire  liley  flowre. 

Amd  ever  shee  doth  lament  and  weepe, 

To  tint  her  lover  soe : 

“ Syr  Cauline,  thou  little  think’st  on  mee, 
But  I will  still  be  true.” 

Manye  a kinge,  and  manye  a duke, 

And  lorde  of  high  degree, 

Did  sue  to  that  fayre  ladye  of  love ; 

But  never  shee  wolde  them  nee. 

When  manye  a daye  was  past  and  gone, 

He  comforte  shee  colde  finde, 

The  kynge  proclaimed  a tourneament, 

To  cheere  his  daughter’s  mind. 

And  there  came  lords,  and  there  came  knights 
Fro  manye  a farre  country e, 

To  break  a spere  for  theyr  ladye’s  love, 
Before  that  faire  ladye. 

And  many  a ladye  there  was  sette, 

In  purple  and  in  palle ; 

But  fake  Christabelle,  soe  woe-begone, 

Was  the  fayrest  of  them  all. 

Then  manye  a knighte  was  mickle  of  might, 
Before  his  ladye  gaye ; 

But  a stranger  wight,  whom  no  man  knewe, 
He  wan  the  prize  eche  daye. 

His  acton  it  was  all  of  blacke, 

His  hewberke  and  his  sheelde ; 

He  noe  man  wist  whence  he  did  come, 

He  noe  man  knewe  where  he  did  gone, 
When  they  came  out  the  feelde. 


And  now  three  days  were  prestlye  past 
In  feates  of  chivalrye, 

When  lo ! upon  the  fourth  morninge, 

A sorrowfulle  sight  they  see  : 

A hugye  giaunt  stiffe  and  starke, 

All  foule  of  limbe  and  lere, 

Two  goggling  eyen,  like  fire  farden, 

A mouthe  from  eare  to  eare. 

Before  him  came  a dwarffe  full  lowe, 

That  waited  on  his  knee ; 

And  at  his  backe  five  heads  he  bare, 

All  wan  and  pale  of  blee. 

“Sk,”  quoth  the  dwarffe,  and  louted  lowe, 

“ Behold  that  hend  Soldain ! 

Behold  these  heads  I beare  with  me ! 

They  are  kings  which  he  hath  slain. 

“ The  Eldridge  knight  is  his  own  cousine, 
Whom  a knight  of  thine  hath  shent ; 

And  hee  is  come  to  avenge  his  wrong : 

And  to  thee,  all  thy  knightes  among, 
Defiance  here  hath  sent. 

“ But  yette  he  will  appease  his  wrath, 

Thy  daughter’s  love  to  winne ; 

And,  but  thou  yeelde  him  that  fayre  maid, 
Thy  halls  and  towers  must  brenne. 

“Thy  head,  syr  king,  must  goe  with  mee, 

Or  else  thy  daughter  dere ; 

Or  else  within  these  lists  soe  broad, 

Thou  must  finde  him  a peere.” 

The  kinge  he  turned  him  round  aboute, 

And  in  his  heart  was  woe : 

“ Is  there  never  a knighte  of  my  round  table 
This  matter  will  undergoe  ? 

“Is  there  never  a knighte  amongst  yee  all 
Will  fight  for  my  daughter  and  mee  ? 

Whoever  will  fight  yon  grimme  Soldan, 
Bight  fair  his  meede  shall  bee. 

“ For  hee  shall  have  my  broad  lay-lands, 
And  of  my  crowne  be  heyre ; 

And  he  shall  winne  fayre  Christabelle 
To  be  his  wedded  fere.” 


SIR  CAULINE. 


203 


But  every  knighte  of  his  round  table 

%Did  stand  both  still  and  pale ; 

For,  whenever  they  lookt  on  the  grim  Soldan, 
It  made  their  hearts  to  quail. 

All  woe-begone  was  that  fayre  ladye, 

When  she  sawe  no  helpe  was  nye : 

She  cast  her  thought  on  her  owne  true-love, 
And  the  teares  gusht  from  her  eye. 

Up  then  sterte  the  stranger  knighte, 

Sayd,  “Ladye,  be  not  affrayd; 

He  fight  for  thee  with  this  grimme  Soldan, 
Thoughe  he  be  unmacklye  made. 

“And  if  thou  wilt  lend  me  the  Eldridge 
sworde, 

That  lyeth  within  thy  bowre, 

I truste  in  Christe  for  to  slay  this  fiende, 
Thoughe  he  be  stiff  in  stowre.” 

“ Goe  fetch  him  downe  the  Eldridge  sworde,” 
The  kinge  he  cryde,  “ with  speede : 

Nowe,  heaven  assist  thee,  courteous  knighte ; 
My  daughter  is  thy  meede.” 

The  gyaunt  he  stepped  into  the  lists, 

And  sayd,  “ Awaye,  awaye ! 

I sweare,  as  I am  the  hend  Soldan, 

Thou  lettest  me  here  all  daye.” 

Then  forthe  the  stranger  knight  he  came, 

In  his  blacke  armoure  dight ; 

The  ladye  sighed  a gentle  sighe, 

“ That  this  were  my  true  knighte ! ” 

And  nowe  the  gyaunt  and  knight  be  mett 
Within  the  lists  soe  broad ; 

And  now,  with  swordes  soe  sharpe  of  steele, 
They  gan  to  lay  on  load. 

The  Soldan  strucke  the  knighte  a stroke 
That  made  him  reele  asyde ; 

Then  woe-begone  was  that  fayre  ladye, 

And  thrice  she  deeply  sighde. 

The  Soldan  strucke  a second  stroke, 

And  made  the  bloude  to  flowe  ; 

All  pale  and  wan  was  that  ladye  fayre, 

And  thrice  she  wept  for  woe. 


The  Soldan  strucke  a third  fell  stroke, 

Which  brought  the  knighte  on  his  knee ; 

Sad  sorrow  pierced  that  ladyes  heart, 

And  she  shriekt  loud  shriekings  three. 

The  knighte  he  leapt  upon  his  feete, 

All  recklesse  of  the  pain ; 

Quoth  hee,  “ But  heaven  be  now  my  speede, 
Or  else  I shall  be  slaine.” 

He  grasped  his  sworde  with  mayne  and  mighte, 
And  spying  a secrette  part, 

He  drave  it  into  the  Soldans  syde, 

And  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 

Then  all  the  people  gave  a shoute, 

Whan  they  sawe  the  Soldan  falle  ; 

The  ladye  wept,  and  thanked  Christ 
That  had  reskewed  her  from  thrall. 

And  nowe  the  kinge,  with  all  his  barons, 
Rose  uppe  from  offe  his  seate, 

And  downe  he  stepped  into  the  listes 
That  curteous  knighte  to  greete. 

But  he,  for  payne  and  lacke  of  bloude, 

Was  fallen  into  a swounde, 

And  there,  all  walteringe  in  his  gore, 

Lay  lifelesse  on  the  grounde. 

“Come  downe,  come  downe,  my  daughtei 
deare, 

Thou  art  a leeche  of  skille ; 

Farre  lever  had  I lose  halfe  my  landes 
Than  this  good  knighte  sholde  spille.” 

Downe  then  steppeth  that  fayre  ladye, 

To  helpe  him  if  she  maye  ; 

But  when  she  did  his  beavere  raise, 

“ It  is  my  life,  my  lord ! ” she  sayes, 

And  shriekte  and  swound  awaye. 

Sir  Cauline  juste  lifte  up  his  eyes, 

When  he  heard  his  ladye  crye : 

“ O ladye,  I am  thine  owne  true  love ; 

For  thee  I wisht  to  dye.” 

Then  giving  her  one  partinge  looke, 

He  closed  his  eyes  in  death, 

Ere  Christabelle,  that  ladye  milde, 

Begane  to  drawe  her  breathe. 


204 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


i 


But  when  she  found  her  comelye  knighte 
Indeed  was  dead  and  gone, 

She  layde  her  pale,  cold  cheeke  to  his, 

And  thus  she  made  her  moane : 

“ O staye,  my  deare  and  onlye  lord, 

For  mee,  thy  faithfulle  fere ; 

’T  is  meet  that  I shold  followe  thee, 

Who  hast  bought  my  love  so  deare.” 

Then  fayntinge  in  a deadlye  swoune, 

And  with  a deep-fette  sighe 

That  hurst  her  gentle  heart  in  twayne, 
Fayre  Christabelle  did  dye. 

Anonymous. 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID. 

Be  it  right,  or  wrong,  these  men  among 
On  women  do  complain ; 

Affirming  this,  how  that  it  is 
A labour  spent  in  vain 
To  love  them  wele;  for  never  a dele 
They  love  a man  again : 

For  let  a man  do  what  he  can, 

Their  favour  to  attain, 

Yet,  if  a new  do  them  pursue, 

Their  first  true  lover  then 
Laboureth  for  nought,  for  from  her  thought 
He  is  a banished  man. 

I say  not  nay,  hut  that  all  day 
It  is  both  writ  and  said 
That  woman’s  faith  is,  as  who  saith, 

All  utterly  decayed ; 

But,  nevertheless,  right  good  witness 
In  this  case  might  he  laid, 

That  they  love  true,  and  continue, 

Record  the  Nut-brown  Maid : 

Which,  when  her  love  came,  her  to  prove, 
To  her  to  make  his  moan, 

Would  not  depart ; for  in  her  heart 
She  loved  hut  him  alone. 

Then  between  us  let  us  discuss 
What  was  all  the  manere 
Between  them  too : we  will  also 
Tell  all  the  pain,  and  fere, 


That  she  was  in.  Now  I begin, 

So  that  ye  me  answere ; t 

Wherefore,  all  ye,  that  present  be 
I pray  you,  give  an  ear. 

I am  the  knight ; I come  by  night, 

As  secret  as  I can ; 

Saying,  “ Alas ! thus  standeth  the  case, 

I am  a banished  man.” 

SHE. 

And  I your  will  for  to  fulfil 
In  this  will  not  refuse ; 

Trusting  to  shew,  in  wordes  few, 

That  men  have  an  ill  use 

(To  their  own  shame)  women  to  blame, 
And  causeless  them  accuse : 

Therefore  to  you  I answer  now, 

All  women  to  excuse — 

Mine  own  heart  dear,  with  you  what  chere? 
I pray  you,  tell  anone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

It  standeth  so ; a dede  is  do 
Whereof  great  harm  shall  grow : 

My  destiny  is  for  to  die 
A shameful  death,  I trowe ; 

Or  else  to  flee ; the  one  must  be. 

None  other  way  I know, 

But  to  withdraw  as  an  outlaw, 

And  take  me  to  my  bow. 

Wherefore,  adieu,  my  own  heart  true ! 
None  other  rede  I can ; 

For  I must  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

0 Lord,  what  is  this  worldys  bliss, 

That  changeth  as  the  moon ! 

My  summer’s  day  in  lusty  May 
Is  darked  before  the  noon. 

1 hear  you  say  Farewell : Nay,  nay, 

We  depart  not  so  soon. 

Why  say  ye  so  ? Wheder  will  ye  go  ? 
Alas ! what  have  ye  done  ? 

All  my  welfare  to  sorrow  and  care 
Should  change,  if  ye  were  gone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID. 


205 


HE. 

I can  believe,  it  shall  you  grieve, 

And  somewhat  you  distrain ; 

But,  afterward,  your  paines  hard 
Within  a day  or  twain 
Shall  soon  aslake ; and  ye  shall  take 
Comfort  to  you  again. 

Why  should  ye  ought?  for  to  make  thought, 
Your  labour  were  in  vain. 

And  thus  I do ; and  pray  you  too, 

As  heartily  as  I can ; 

For  I must  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

Now,  sith  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 
The  secret  of  your  mind, 

I shall  be  plain  to  you  again, 

Like  as  ye  shall  me  find. 

Sith  it  is  so,  that  ye  will  go, 

I wolle  not  leave  behind ; 

Shall  never  be  said,  the  Nut-brown  Maid 
Was  to  her  love  unkind : 

Make  you  ready,  for  so  am  I, 

Although  it  were  anone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Yet  I you  rede  to  take  good  heed 
What  men  will  think  and  say : 

Of  young  and  old  it  shall  be  told, 

That  ye  be  gone  away, 

Your  wanton  will  for  to  fulfil, 

In  green  wood  you  to  play ; 

And  that  ye  might  from  your  delight 
No  longer  make  delay. 

Rather  than  ye  should  thus  for  me 
Be  called  an  ill  woman, 

Yet  would  I to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

Though  it  be  sung  of  old  and  young, 

That  I should  be  to  blame, 

Theirs  be  the  charge,  that  speak  so  large 
In  hurting  of  my  name  ; 

For  I will  prove,  that,  faithful  love 
It  is  devoid  of  shame  • 

In  your  distress,  and  heaviness, 

To  part  with  you,  the  same ; 


And  sure  all  tho,  that  do  not  so, 

True  lovers  are  they  none ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

I counsel  you,  remember  how, 

It  is  no  maiden’s  law, 

Nothing  to  doubt,  but  to  renne  out 
To  wood  with  an  outlaw : 

For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  bear 
A bow,  ready  to  draw ; 

And,  as  a thief,  thus  must  you  live, 

Ever  in  dread  and  awe ; 

Whereby  to  you  great  harm  might  grow : 
Yet  had  I lever  than, 

That  I had  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

I think  not  nay,  but  as  ye  say, 

It  is  no  maiden’s  lore ; 

But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake, 

As  I have  said  before, 

To  come  on  foot,  to  hunt,  and  shoot 
To  get  us  meat  in  store ; 

For  so  that  I your  company 
May  have,  I ask  no  more  : 

From  which  to  part,  it  maketh  my  heart 
As  cold  as  any  stone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

For  an  outlaw  this  is  the  law, 

That  men  him  take  and  bind ; 

Without  pity,  hanged  to  be, 

And  waver  with  the  wind. 

If  I had  nede,  (as  God  forbede !) 

What  rescue  could  ye  find  ? 

Forsooth,  I trow,  ye  and  your  bow 
For  fear  would  draw  behind  ; 

And  no  mervayle  : for  little  avail 
Were  in  your  counsel  then ; 

Wherefore  I will  to  the  green  wood  go, 
Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

Right  well  know  ye,  that  women  be 
But  feeble  for  to  fight ; 

No  womanhede  it  is  indeed 
To  be  bold  as  a knight ; 


206 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


Yet  in  such  fear  if  that  ye  were 
With  enemies  day  or  night, 

I would  withstand,  with  how  in  hand, 

To  greve  them  as  I might, 

And  you  to  save ; as  women  have, 

From  death  men  many  a one ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  hut  you  alone. 

HE. 

Yet  take  good  hede ; for  ever  I drede 
That  ye  could  not  sustain 
The  thorny  ways,  the  deep  valleys, 

The  snow,  the  frost,  the  rain, 

The  cold,  the  heat : for,  dry  or  wet, 

We  must  lodge  on  the  plain ; 

And,  us  above,  none  other  roof 
But  a brake  bush,  or  twain ; 

Which  soon  should  grieve  you,  I believe ; 

And  ye  would  gladly  then 
That  I had  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

Sith  I have  here  been  partynere 
With  you  of  joy  and  bliss, 

I must  also  part  of  your  woe 
Endure,  as  reason  is ; 

Yet  am  I sure  of  one  pleasure; 

And,  shortly,  it  is  this : 

That,  where  ye  be,  me  seemeth,  parde, 

I could  not  fare  amiss. 

Without  more  speech,  I you  beseech 
That  we  were  soon  agone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

If  ye  go  thyder,  ye  must  consider, 

When  ye  have  lust  to  dine, 

There  shall  no  meat  be  for  you  gete, 

Nor  drink,  beer,  ale,  nor  wine. 

No  shet&s  clean,  to  lie  between, 

Made  of  thread  and  twine ; 

None  other  house,  but  leaves  and  boughs, 
To  cover  your  head  and  mine  ; 

O mine  heart  sweet,  this  evil  diete 
Should  make  you  pale  and  wan ; 
Wherefore  I will  to  the  green  wood  go, 
Alone,  a banished  man. 


SHE. 

Among  the  wild  dere,  such  an  ar.chere, 
As  men  say  that  ye  be, 

Ne  may  not  fail  of  good  vitayle, 

Where  is  so  great  plenty : 

And  water  clear  of  the  ry  vere 
Shall  be  full  sweet  to  me ; 

With  which  in  hele  I shall  right  wele 
Endure,  as  ye  shall  see ; 

And,  or  we  go,  a bed  or  two 
I can  provide  anone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Lo ! yet,  before,  ye  must  do  more, 

If  ye  will  go  with  me : 

As  cut  your  hair  up  by  your  ear, 

Your  kirtle  by  the  knee  ; 

With  bow  in  hand,  for  to  withstand 
Your  enemies,  if  need  be ; 

And  this  same  night  before  day-light, 
To  wood-ward  will  I flee. 

If  that  ye  will  all  this  fulfil, 

Do  it  shortly  as  ye  can ; 

Else  will  I to  the  green  wood  go^ 
Alone,  a banished  man. 

SHE. 

I shall  as  now  do  more  for  you 
Than  ’longeth  to  womanhede ; 

To  shorte  my  hair,  a bow  to  bear, 

To  shoot  in  time  of  need. 

O my  sweet  mother,  before  all  other 
For  you  I have  most  drede  ; 

But  now,  adieu ! I must  ensue, 

Where  fortune  doth  me  lead. 

All  this  make  ye : Now  let  us  flee ; 
The  day  cometh  fast  upon ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I love  but  you  alone. 

HE. 

Nay,  nay,  not  so ; ye  shall  not  go 
And  I shall  tell  ye  why, 

Your  appetite  is  to  be  light 
Of  love,  I wele  aspy : 

For,  like  as  ye  have  said  to  me, 

In  like  wise  hardely 

Ye  would  answere  whosoever  it  were, 
In  way  of  company. 


THE  NUT-BROWN  MAID.  207 

It  is  said  of  old,  Soon  hot,  soon  cold ; 

Another  fayrere,  than  ever  ye  were, 

And  so  is  a wom&n ; 

I dare  it  wele  avow ; 

Wherefore  I to  the  wood  will  go 

And  of  you  both  each  should  be  wroth 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

With  other,  as  I trow : 

It  were  mine  ease,  to  live  in  peace ; 

SHE. 

So  will  I,  if  I can ; 

If  ye  take  heed,  it  is  no  need 

Wherefore  I to  the  wood  will  go, 

Such  words  to  say  by  me ; 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

For  oft  ye  prayed,  and  long  assayed, 

Or  I you  loved,  parde ; 

SHE. 

And  though  that  I of  ancestry 

A baron’s  daughter  be, 

Though  in  the  wood  I understood 

Yet  have  vou  proved  how  I you  loved 

Ye  had  a paramour, 

A squire  of  low  degree ; 

All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought, 

And  ever  shall,  whatso  befall ; 

But  that  I will  be  your : 

To  die  therefore  anone ; 

And  she  shall  finde  me  soft  and  kind, 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

And  courteys  every  hour ; 

I love  but  you  alone. 

Glad  to  fulfil  all  that  she  will 
Command  me  to  my  power : 

HE. 

For  had  ye,  lo ! an  hundred  mo, 

A baron’s  child  to  be  beguiled ! 

Of  them  I would  be  one ; 

It  were  a cursed  dede  ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

To  be  felawe  with  an  outlawe ! 

I love  but  you  alone. 

Almighty  God  forbede ! 

Yet  better  were,  the  poor  squyere 

HE. 

Alone  to  forest  yede, 

Mine  own  dear  love,  I see  the  proof 

Than  ye  should  say  another  day, 

That  ye  be  kind  and  true ; 

That,  by  my  cursed  dede, 

Of  maid,  and  wife,  in  all  my  life, 

Ye  were  betrayed ; wherefore,  good  maid, 

The  best  that  ever  I knew. 

The  best  rede  that  I can, 

Be  merry  and  glad,  be  no  more  sad, 

Is,  that  I to  the  green  wood  go, 

The  case  is  changed  new. 

Alone,  a banished  man. 

For  it  were  ruth,  that,  for  your  truth, 
Ye  should  have  cause  to  rue. 

SHE. 

Be  not  dismayed,  whatsoever  I said 

Whatever  befall,  I never  shall 

To  you,  when  I began ; 

Of  this  thing  you  upbraid  ; 

I will  not  to  the  green  wood  go, 

But  if  ye  go,  and  leave  me  so, 

I am  no  banished  man. 

Then  have  ye  me  betrayed. 

Remember  you  wele,  how  that  ye  dele ; 

SHE. 

For,  if  ye,  as  ye  said, 

Be  so  unkind,  to  leave  behind, 

These  tidings  be  more  glad  to  me, 

Your  love,  the  Nut-brown  Maid, 

Than  to  be  made  a queen, 

Trust  me  truly,  that  I shall  die 

If  I were  sure  they  should  endure  : 

Soon  after  ye  be  gone  ; 

But  it  is  often  seen, 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

When  men  will  break  promise,  they  speak 

I love  but  you  alone. 

The  wordes  on  the  splene. 

Ye  shape  some  wile  me  to  beguile, 

nE. 

And  steal  from  me,  I ween ; 

If  that  ye  went,  ye  should  repent ; 

Then,  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was, 

For  in  the  forest  now 

And  I more  wo-begone  ; 

I have  purvayed  me  of  a maid, 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

Whom  I love  more  than  you  ; 

I love  but  you  alone. 

208 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


HE. 

Ye  shall  not  nede  further  to  drede  ; 

I will  not  disparage 
You,  (God  defend !)  sith  ye  descend 
Of  so  great  a lineage. 

Now  understand ; to  Westmoreland, 
Which  is  mine  heritage, 

I will  you  bring ; and  with  a ring, 

By  way  of  marriage 
I will  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  shortly  as  I can  : 

Thus  have  you  won  an  erly’s  son, 

And  not  a banished  man. 

ATJTHOE. 

Here  may  ye  see,  that  women  be 
In  love,  meek,  kind,  and  stable  ; 

Let  never  man  reprove  them  then, 

Or  call  them  variable ; 

But,  rather,  pray  God  that  we  may 
To  them  be  comfortable ; 

Which  sometime  proveth  such,  as  he  loveth, 
If  they  be  charitable. 

For  sith  men  would  that  women  should 
Be  meek  to  them  each  one ; 

Much  more  ought  they  to  God  obey, 

And  serve  but  him  alone. 

Anonymous. 


YOUNG  BEICHAN  AND  SUSIE  PYE. 

In  London  was  young  Beichan  born, 

He  longed  strange  countries  for  to  see ; 

But  he  was  taen  by  a savage  Moor, 

Who  handled  him  right  cruellie ; 

For  he  viewed  the  fashions  of  that  land : 
Their  way  of  worship  viewed  he  ; 

But  to  Mahound,  or  Termagant, 

Would  Beichan  never  bend  a knee. 

So  in  every  shoulder  they ’ve  putten  a bore ; 
In  every  bore  they ’ve  putten  a tree  ; 

And  they  have  made  him  trail  the  wine 
And  spices  on  his  fair  bodie. 

They ’ve  casten  him  in  a dungeon  deep, 
Where  he  could  neither  hear  nor  see ; 

For  seven  years  they  kept  him  there, 

Till  he  for  hunger ’s  like  to  die. 


This  Moor  he  had  but  ae  daughter, 

Her  name  was  called  Susie  Pye ; 

And  every  day  as  she  took  the  air, 

Near  Beichan’s  prison  she  passed  by. 

0 so  it  fell,  upon  a day 

She  heard  young  Beichan  sadly  sing : 

“ My  hounds  they  all  go  masterless ; 

My  hawks  they  flee  from  tree  to  tree ; 

My  younger  brother  will  heir  my  land ; 

Fair  England  again  I ’ll  never  see ! ” 

All  night  long  no  rest  she  got, 

Young  Beichan’s  song  for  thinking  on ; 

She ’s  stown  the  keys  from  her  father’s  head, 
And  to  the  prison  strong  is  gone. 

And  she  has  opened  the  prison  doors, 

I wot  she  opened  two  or  three, 

Ere  she  could  come  young  Beichan  at, 

He  was  locked  up  so  curiouslie. 

But  when  she  came  young  Beichan  before, 
Sore  wondered  he  that  may  to  see ; 

He  took  her  for  some  fair  captive ; — 

“Fair  Lady,  I pray,  of  what  countrie?” 

“ 0 have  ye  any  lands,”  she  said, 

“ Or  castles  in  your  own  countrie, 

That  ye  could  give  to  a lady  fair, 

From  prison  strong  to  set  you  free  ? ” 

“ Near  London  town  I have  a hall, 

With  other  castles  two  or  three  ; 

I’  11  give  them  all  to  the  lady  fair 
That  out  of  prison  will  set  me  free.” 

“ Give  me  the  truth  of  your  right  hand, 

The  truth  of  it  give  unto  me, 

That  for  seven  years  ye  ’ll  no  lady  wed, 
Unless  it  be  along  with  me.” 

“ I ’ll  give  thee  the  truth  of  my  right  hand, 
The  truth  of  it  I ’ll  freely  gie, 

That  for  seven  years  I ’ll  stay  unwed, 

For  the  kindness  thou  dost  show  to  me.” 

And  she  has  bribed  the  proud  warder 
Wi’  mickle  gold  and  white  monie  ; 

She ’s  gotten  the  keys  of  the  prison  stron 
And  she  has  set  young  Beichan  free 


YOUNG  BEICHAN  AND  SUSIE  PYE. 


209 


She ’s  gi’en  him  to  eat  the  good  spice-cake, 
She ’s  gi’en  him  to  drink  the  blood-red  wine ; 

She ’s  hidden  him  sometimes  think  on  her 
That  sae  kindly  freed  him  out  of  pine. 

She ’s  broken  a ring  from  her  finger, 

And  to  Beichan  half  of  it  gave  she  : 

“ Keep  it,  to  mind  you  of  that  love 
The  lady  borr  that  set  you  free. 

“ And  set  your  foot  on  good  ship-hoard, 

And  haste  ye  hack  to  your  own  countrie ; 

And  before  that  seven  years  have  an  end, 
Come  back  again,  love,  and  marry  me.” 

But  long  ere  seven  years  had  an  end, 

She  longed  full  sore  her  love  to  see ; 

For  ever  a voice  within  her  breast 

Said,  “ Beichan  has  broke  his  vow  to  thee.” 

So  she ’s  set  her  foot  on  good  ship-board, 
And  turned  her  back  on  her  own  countrie. 

She  sailed  east,  she  sailed  west, 

Till  to  fair  England’s  shore  she  came ; 

Where  a bonny  shepherd  she  espied, 

Feeding  his  sheep  upon  the  plain. 

“ What  news,  what  news,  thou  bonny  shep- 
herd? 

What  news  has  thou  to  tell  to  me  ? ” 

“Such  news  I hear,  ladie,”  he  says, 

“ The  like  was  never  in  this  countrie. 

“ There  is  a wedding  in  yonder  hall, 

Has  lasted  these  thirty  days  and  three ; 

Young  Beichan  will  not  bed  with  his  bride, 
For  love  of  one  that ’s  yond  the  sea.” 

She ’s  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket, 

Gi’en  him  the  gold  and  white  monie ; 

“ Here,  take  ye  that,  my  bonny  boy, 

For  the  good  news  thou  tell’st  to  me.” 

When  she  came  to  young  Beichan’s  gate, 

She  tirled  softly  at  the  pin ; 

So  ready  was  the  proud  porter 
To  open  and  let  this  lady  in. 

“ Is  this  young  Beichan’s  hall,”  she  said, 

“ Or  is  that  noble  lord  within  ? ” 

“Yea,  he ’8  in  the  hall  among  them  all, 

And  this  is  the  day  o’  his  weddin.” 

14 


“ And  has  he  wed  anither  love  ? 

And  has  he  clean  forgotten  me  ? ” 

And,  sighin’,  said  that  gay  ladie, 

“I  wish  I were  in  my  own  countrie.” 

And  she  has  taen  her  gay  gold  ring, 

That  with  her  love  she  brake  so  free ; 

Says,  “ Gie  him  that,  ye  proud  porter, 

And  bid  the  bridegroom  speak  to  me.” 

When  the  porter  came  his  lord  before, 

He  kneeled  down  low  on  his  knee — 

“ What  aileth  thee,  my  proud  porter, 

Thou  art  so  full  of  courtesie  ? ” 

“I ’ve  been  porter  at  your  gates, 

It ’s  thirty  long  years  now  and  three ; 

But  there  stands  a lady  at  them  now, 

The  like  o’  her  did  I never  see ; 

“ For  on  every  finger  she  has  a ring, 

And  on  her  mid  finger  she  has  three  ; 

And  as  meickle  gold  aboon  her  brow 
As  would  buy  an  earldom  to  me.” 

Its  out  then  spak  the  bride’s  mother, 

Aye  and  an  angry  woman  was  shee ; 

“ Ye  might  have  excepted  our  bonny  bride, 
And  twa  or  three  of  our  companie.” 

“ 0 hold  your  tongue,  thou  bride’s  mother ; 
Of  all  your  folly  let  me  be ; 

She ’s  ten  times  fairer  nor  the  bride, 

And  all  that ’s  in  your  companie. 

“ She  begs  one  sheave  of  your  white  bread, 
But  and  a cup  of  your  red  wine ; 

And  to  remember  the  lady’s  love, 

That  last  relieved  you  out  of  pine.” 

“O  well-a-day!  ” said  Beichan  then, 

“ That  I so  soon  have  married  thee ! 

For  it  can  be  none  but  Susie  Pye, 

That  sailed  the  sea  for  love  of  me.” 

And  quickly  hied  he  down  the  stair ; 

Of  fifteen  steps  he  made  but  three  ; 

He’s  ta’en  his  bonny  love  in  his  arms, 

And  kist,  and  kist  her  tenderlie. 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


210 

“ O hae  ye  ta’en  anither  bride  ? 

And  hae  ye  quite  forgotten  me  ? 

And  hae  ye  quite  forgotten  her, 

That  gave  you  life  and  libertie  ? ” 

She  looked  o’er  her  left  shoulder, 

To  hide  the  tears  stood  in  her  e’e : 

“Now  fare  thee  well,  young  Beichan,”  she 
says, 

“I’ll  try  to  think  no  more  on  thee.” 

“ O never,  never,  Susie  Pye, 

For  surely  this  can  never  be ; 

Nor  ever  shall  I wed  but  her 
That’s  done  and  dree’d  so  much  for  me.” 

Then  out  and  spak  the  forenoon  bride — 

“ My  lord,  your  love  it  changeth  soon ; 
This  morning  I was  made  your  bride, 

And  another  chose  ere  it  be  noon.” 

“ O hold  thy  tongue,  thou  forenoon  bride ; 

Ye’re  ne’er  a whit  the  worse  for  me ; 

And  whan  ye  return  to  your  own  countrie, 

A double  dower  I’ll  send  with  thee.” 

He ’s  taen  Susie  Pye  by  the  white  hand, 

And  gently  led  her  up  and  down  ; 

And  ay  as  he  kist  her  red  rosy  lips, 

“Ye’re  welcome,  jewel,  to  your  own.” 

He ’s  taen  her  by  the  milk-white  hand, 

And  led  her  to  yon  fountain  stane ; 

He ’s  changed  her  name  from  Susie  Pye, 

And  he ’s  called  her  his  bonny  love,  Lady 


LORD  LOYEL. 

Lord  Lovel  he  stood  at  his  castle  gate, 
Combing  his  milk-white  steed ; 

When  up  came  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed,  speed, 

To  wish  her  lover  good  speed. 

“Where  are  you  going,  Lord  Lovel?”  she 
said, 

“ Oh ! where  are  you  going  ? ” said  she  ; 

“ T ’m  going,  my  Lady  Nancy  Belle, 

Strange  countries  for  to  see,  to  see, 

Strange  countries  for  to  see.” 


“ When  will  you  be  back,  Lord  Lovel  ? ” said 
she ; 

“ 0 ! when  will  you  come  back  ? ” said  she ; 

“ In  a year  or  two — or  three,  at  the  most, 

I ’ll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy-cy, 

I ’ll  return  to  my  fair  Nancy.” 

But  he  had  not  been  gone  a year  and  a day, 
Strange  countries  for  to  see, 

When  languishing  thoughts  came  into  his 
head, 

Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see,  see, 
Lady  Nancy  Belle  he  would  go  see. 

So  he  rode,  and  he  rode  on  his  milk-white 
steed, 

Till  he  came  to  London  town, 

And  there  he  heard  St.  Pancras’  bells, 

And  the  people  all  mourning,  round,  round, 
And  the  people  all  mourning  round. 

“ 0,  what  is  the  matter,”  Lord  Lovel  he  said, 
“ Oh ! what  is  the  matter  ? ” said  he ; 

“ A lord’s  lady  is  dead,”  a woman  replied, 

“ And  some  call  her  Lady  Nancy-cy, 

And  some  call  her  Lady  Nancy.” 

So  he  ordered  the  grave  to  be  opened  wide, 
And  the  shroud  he  turned  down, 

And  there  he  kissed  her  clay-cold  lips, 

Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down,  down, 
Till  the  tears  came  trickling  down. 

Lady  Nancy  she  died  as  it  might  be  to-day, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  as  to-morrow ; 

Lady  Nancy  she  died  out  of  pure,  pure  grief, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow,  sorrow, 
Lord  Lovel  he  died  out  of  sorrow. 

Lady  Nancy  was  laid  in  St.  Pancras’  church, 
Lord  Lovel  was  laid  in  the  choir ; 

And  out  of  her  bosom  there  grew  a red  rose, 
And  out  of  her  lover’s  a brier,  brier, 

And  out  of  her  lover’s  a brier. 

They  grew,  and  they  grew,  to  the  church 
steeple  top, 

And  then  they  could  grow  no  higher : 

So  there  they  entwined  in  a true-lover’s  knot, 
For  all  lovers  true  to  admire-mire, 

For  all  lovers  true  to  admire. 

Anonymous. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-D ALE. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  ALLEN-A-DALE. 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 

All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear, 

And  I will  tell  you  of  a bold  outlaw, 

That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Robin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood, 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree, 

There  he  was  aware  of  a brave  young  man, 
As  fine  as  fine  might  he. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red, 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay ; 

And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain, 

And  chaunted  a roundelay. 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 
Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 

There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 
Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 
It  was  clean  cast  away ; 

And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a sigh, 

“Alas ! and  a well-a-day ! ” 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  the  miller’s  son ; 

Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  how, 
When  as  he  see  them  come. 

“Stand  off!  stand  off!  ” the  young  man  said, 
“ What  is  your  will  with  me  ? ” 

“You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 
Under  yon  greenwood  tree.” 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 

Robin  asked  him  courteously, 

“ O,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare, 

For  my  merry  men  and  me?” 

“I  have  no  money,”  the  young  man  said, 
“But  five  shillings  and  a ring; 

And  that  I have  kept  this  seven  long  years, 
To  have  at  my  wedding. 


211 

“Yesterday  I should  have  married  a maid, 
But  she  was  from  me  ta’en, 

And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight’s  delight, 
Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain.” 

“ What  is  thy  name  ? ” then  said  Robin  Hood, 
“ Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail.” 

“ By  the  faith  of  my  body,”  then  said  the 
young  man, 

kHy  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dalq.” 

“What  wilt  thou  give  me,”  said  Robin  Hood, 
“ In  ready  gold  or  fee, 

To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again, 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee  ? ” 

“I  have  no  money,”  then  quoth  the  young 
man, 

No  ready  gold  nor  fee, 

But  I will  swear  upon  a book 
Thy  true  servant  for  to  be.” 

“ How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile.” 

“By  the  faith  of  my  body,”  then  said  the 
young  man, 

“ It  is  but  five  little  mile.” 

Then  Robin  he  haste :1  over  the  plain, 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  lin, 

Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  weddin’. 

“What  hast  thou  here?  ” the  bishop  then  said, 
“ I prithee  now  tell  unto  me.” 

“lama  bold  harper,”  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
“And  the  best  in  the  north  country.” 

“ 0 welcome,  O welcome,”  the  bishop  he  said, 
“ That  music  best  pleaseth  me.” 

“You  shall  have  no  music,”  quoth  Robin 
Hood, 

“ Till  the  bride  and  bridegroom  I see.” 

With  that  came  in  a wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  grave  and  old ; 

And  after  him  a finikin  lass, 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 


212  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

“ This  is  not  a fit  match,”  quoth  Eobin  Hood, 

“ That  you  do  seem  to  make  here ; 

TEUTH’S  INTEGEITY. 

For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church, 

The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear.” 

FEEST  PABT. 

Then  Eobin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

Oveb  the  mountains 

And  blew  blasts  two  or  three ; 

And  under  the  waves, 

"When  four-and-twenty  yeomen  bold 

Over  the  fountains 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

And  under  the  graves, 

• 

Under  floods  which  are  deepest. 

And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Which  do  Neptune  obey, 

Marching  all  in  a row, 

Over  rocks  which  are  steepest, 

The  first  man  was  Allen-a-Dale, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

To  give  bold  Eobin  his  bow. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

“ This  is  thy  true  love,”  Eobin  he  said, 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie, 

“ Young  Allen,  as  I hear  say ; 

Where  there  is  no  place 

And  you  shall  be  married  this  same  time, 

For  receipt  of  a fly, 

Before  we  depart  away.” 

Where  the  gnat  dares  not  venture, 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay, 

“ That  shall  not  be,”  the  bishop  he  cried, 

But  if  Love  come  he  will  enter, 

“For  thy  word  shall  not  stand ; 

And  find  out  the  way. 

They  shall  be  three  times  asked  in  the  church, 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land.” 

You  may  esteem  him 

A child  of  his  force, 

Eobin  Hood  pulled  off  the  bishop’s  coat, 

Or  you  may  deem  him 

And  put  it  upon  Little  John ; 

A coward,  which  is  worse  ; 

“ By  the  faith  of  my  body,”  then  Eobin  said, 

But  if  he  whom  Love  doth  honor 

“ This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a man.” 

Be  concealed  from  the  day, 

Set  a thousand  guards  upon  him — 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire, 

The  people  began  to  laugh ; 

He  asked  them  seven  times  into  church, 

Some  think  to  lose  him, 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

Which  is  too  unkind ; 

And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Poor  heart,  to  be  blind ; 

“Who  gives  me  this  maid?  ” said  Little  John, 

But  if  he  were  hidden, 

Quoth  Eobin  Hood,  “ That  do  I ; 

Do  the  best  you  may, 

And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 

Blind  Love,  if  you  60  call  him, 

Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy.” 

Will  find  out  the  way.  # 

And  then  having  ended  this  merry  wedding, 

Well  may  the  eagle 

The  bride  looked  like  a queen ; 

Stoop  down  to  the  fist, 

And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  green- 

Or you  may  inveigle 

wood, 

The  Phoenix  of  the  east ; 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 

With  fear  the  tiger ’s  moved 

Anonymous. 

To  give  over  their  prey ; 

# 

But  never  stop  a lover — 

• 

He  will  find  out  the  way. 

THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY.  213 


From  Dover  to  Berwick, 

And  nations  thereabout, 

Brave  Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick, 

That  champion  so  stout, 

With  his  warlike  behavior, 

Through  the  world  he  did  stray, 
To  win  his  Phillis’s  favor — 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

In  order  next  enters 
Bevis  so  brave, 

After  adventures 
And  policy  brave, 

To  see  whom  he  desired, 

His  Josian  so  gay, 

For  whom  his  heart  was  fired — 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 


SECOND  PART. 

The  Gordian  knot 
Which  true  lovers  knit, 

Undo  it  you  cannot, 

Nor  yet  break  it ; 

Make  use  of  your  inventions, 
Their  fancies  to  betray, 

To  frustrate  their  intentions — 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

From  court  to  the  cottage, 

In  bower  and  in  hall, 

From  the  king  unto  the  beggar, 
Love  conquers  all. 

Though  ne’er  so  stout  and  lordly, 
Strive  or  do  what  you  may, 
Yet  be  you  ne’er  so  hardy, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Love  hath  power  over  princes, 
And  greatest  emperors ; 

In  any  provinces, 

Such  is  Love’s  power 
There  is  no  resisting, 

But  him  to  obey ; 

In  spite  of  all  contesting, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

If  that  he  were  hidden, 

And  all  men  that  are 
Were  strictly  forbidden 
That  place  to  declare, 


Winds  that  have  no  abidings, 
Pitying  their  delay, 

Would  come  and  bring  him  tidings, 
And  direct  him  the  way. 

If  the  earth  should  part  him, 

He  would  gallop  it  o’er ; 

If  the  seas  should  o’erthwart  him, 
He  would  swim  to  the  shore. 
Should  his  love  become  a swallow, 
Through  the  air  to  stray, 

Love  will  lend  wings  to  follow, 

And  will  find  out  the  way. 

There  is  no  striving 
To  cross  his  intent, 

There  is  no  contriving 
His  plots  to  prevent ; 

But  if  once  the  message  greet  him, 
That  his  true  love  doth  stay, 

If  death  should  come  and  meet  him, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Anonymous. 


THE  FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

It  was  a friar  of  orders  gray 
Walked  forth  to  tell  his  beads ; 

And  he  met  with  a lady  fair 
Clad  in  a pilgrim’s  weeds. 

“ How  Christ  thee  save,  thou  reverend  friar 
I pray  thee  tell  to  me, 

If  ever  at  yon  holy  shrine 
My  true  love  thou  didst  see.” 

“ And  how  should  I know  your  true  love 
From  many  another  one  ? ” 

“O,  by  his  cockle  hat,  and  staff, 

And  by  his  sandal  shoon. 

“But  chiefly  by  his  face  and  mien, 

That  were  so  fair  to  view ; 

His  flaxen  locks  that  sweetly  curled, 

And  eyes  of  lovely  blue.” 

“ 0 lady,  he ’s  dead  and  gone ! 

Lady,  he ’s  dead  and  gone ! 

And  at  his  head  a green  grass  turf, 

And  at  his  heels  a stone. 


214  POEMS  OF  LOVE 


“Within  these  holy  cloisters  long 
He  languished,  and  he  died, 
Lamenting  of  a lady’s  love, 

And  ’plaining  of  her  pride. 

“ His  cheek  was  redder  than  the  rose ; 

The  comeliest  youth  was  he ! 

But  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave : 
Alas,  and  woe  is  me ! ” 

“ Here  bore  him  barefaced  on  his  bier 
Six  proper  youths  and  tall, 

And  many  a tear  bedewed  his  grave 
Within  yon  kirk-yard  wall.” 

“ Sigh  no  more,  lady,  sigh  no  more, 
Men  were  deceivers  ever : 

One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  land, 

To  one  thing  constant  never. 

“And  art  thou  dead,  thou  gentle  youth! 

And  art  thou  dead  and  gone ! 

And  didst  thou  die  for  love  of  me  ? 
Break,  cruel  heart  of  stone ! ” 

“ Hadst  thou  been  fond,  he  had  been  false, 
And  left  thee  sad  and  heavy ; 

For  young  men  ever  were  fickle  found, 
Since  summer  trees  were  leafy.” 

“ 0 weep  not,  lady,  weep  not  so  ; 

Some  ghostly  comfort  seek : 

Let  not  vain  sorrow  rive  thy  heart, 
Nor  tears  bedew  thy  cheek.” 

“Now  say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar, 
I pray  thee  say  not  so ; 

My  love  he  had  the  truest  heart — 
0 he  was  ever  true ! 

“ 0 do  not,  do  not,  holy  friar, 

My  sorrow  now  reprove ; 

For  I have  lost  the  sweetest  youth 
That  e’er  won  lady’s  love. 

‘ 4 And  art  thou  dead,  thou  much-loved  youth, 
And  didst  thou  die  for  me  ? 

Then  farewell  home ; for  evermore 
A pilgrim  I will  be. 

“ And  now,  alas ! for  thy  sad  loss 
I ’ll  evermore  weep  and  sigh  : 
For  thee  I only  wished  to  live, 
For  thee  I wish  to  die.” 

“ But  first  upon  my  true-love’s  grave 
My  weary  limbs  I ’ll  lay, 

And  thrice  I 'll  kiss  the  green-grass  turf 
That  wraps  his  breathless  clay.” 

“Weep  no  more,  lady,  weep  no  more, 
Thy  sorrow  is  in  vain ; 

For  violets  plucked,  the  sweetest  showers 
Will  ne’er  make  grow  again. 

“ Yet  stay,  fair  lady : rest  awhile 
Beneath  this  cloister  wall ; 

See  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  cold 
wind, 

And  drizzly  rain  doth  fall.” 

“ Our  joys  as  winged  dreams  do  fly ; 

Why  then  should  sorrow  last  ? 
Since  grief  but  aggravates  thy  loss, 
Grieve  not  for  what  is  past.” 

“ 0 stay  me  not,  thou  holy  friar, 
0 stay  me  not  I pray ; 

No  drizzly  rain  that  falls  on  me, 
Can  wash  my  fault  away.” 

“ 0 say  not  so,  thou  holy  friar ; 

I pray  thee,  say  not  so ; 

For  since  my  true-love  died  for  me, 
’T  is  meet  my  tears  should  flow. 

“Yet  stay,  fair  lady,  turn  again, 
And  dry  those  pearly  tears ; 

For  see  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 
Thy  own  true-love  appears. 

“And  will  he  never  come  again? 

Will  he  ne’er  come  again  ? 

Ah ! no,  he  is  dead  and  laid  in  his  grave : 
For  ever  to  remain. 

“Here  forced  by  grief,  and  hopeless  love, 
These  holy  weeds  I sought ; 

And  here  amid  these  lonely  walls 
To  end  my  days  I thought. 

THE  SPANISH  LADY’S  LOVE. 


215 


“ But  haply,  for  my  year  of  grace 
Is  not  yet  passed  away ; 

Might  I still  hope  to  win  thy  love, 

No  longer  would  I stay.” 

“ Now  farewell  grief,  and  welcome  joy 
Once  more  unto  my  heart ; 

For  since  I have  found  thee,  lovely  youth, 
We  never  more  will  part.” 

Thomas  Percy. 


THE  SPANISH  LADY’S  LOVE. 

Will  you  hear  a Spanish  lady, 

How  she  wooed  an  English  man  ? 

Garments  gay  as  rich  as  may  he 
Decked  with  jewels  had  she  on. 

Of  a comely  countenance  and  grace  was 
she, 

And  by  birth  and  parentage  of  high  degree. 

As  his  prisoner  there  he  kept  her, 

In  his  hands  her  life  did  lye ; 

Cupid’s  bands  did  tye  her  faster 
By  the  liking  of  an  eye. 

In  his  courteous  company  was  all  her  joy, 

To  favour  him  in  any  thing  she  was  not 
coy. 

At  the  last  there  came  commandment 
For  to  set  the  ladies  free, 

With  their  jewels  still  adorned, 

None  to  do  them  injury. 

“Alas ! ” then  said  this  lady  gay,  “ full  woe  is 
me; 

O let  me  still  sustain  this  kind  captivity ! 

“0  gallant  captain,  shew  some  pity 
To  a ladye  in  distresse ; 

Leave  me  not  within  this  city, 

For  to  dye  in  heavinesse. 

Thou  hast  set  this  present  day  my  body 
free, 

But  my  heart  in  prison  strong  remains  with 
thee.” 


“How  should ’st  thou,  fair  lady,  love  me, 
Whom  thou  know’st  thy  country’s  foe? 

Thy  fair  wordes  make  me  suspect  thee : 
Serpents  are  where  flowers  grow.” 

“ All  the  evil  I think  to  thee,  most  gracious 
knight, 

God  grant  unto  myself  the  same  may  fully 
light. 

“Blessed  be  the  time  and  season, 

' That  you  came  on  Spanish  ground ; 

If  you  may  our  foes  be  termed, 

Gentle  foes  we  have  you  found : 

With  our  city,  you  have  won  our  hearts  each 
one, 

Then  to  your  country  bear  away,  that  is  your 
own.” 

“ Rest  you  still,  most  gallant  lady ; 

Rest  you  still,  and  weep  no  more ; 

Of  fair  lovers  there  are  plenty, 

Spain  doth  yield  a wondrous  store.” 
“Spaniards  fraught  with  jealousy  we  often 
find, 

But  Englishmen  throughout  the  world  are 
counted  kind. 

“Leave  me  not  unto  a Spaniard, 

You  alone  enjoy  my  heart; 

I am  lovely,  young,  and  tender, 

And  so  love  is  my  desert. 

Still  to  serve  thee  day  and  night  my  mind  is 
prest; 

The  wife  of  every  Englishman  is  counted 
blest.” 

“ It  would  be  a shame,  fair  lady, 

For  to  bear  a woman  hence ; 

English  soldiers  never  carry 
Any  such  without  offence.” 

“ I will  quickly  change  myself,  if  it  be  so, 
And  like  a page  I’ll  follow  thee,  where’er 
thou  go.” 

“ I have  neither  gold  nor  silver 
To  maintain  thee  in  this  case, 

And  to  travel,  ’t  is  great  charges, 

As  you  know,  in  every  place.” 

“My  chains  and  jewels  every  one  shall  be 
thine  own, 

And  eke  ten  thousand  pounds  in  gold  that 
lies  unknown.” 


216 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


i 


“ On  the  seas  are  many  dangers ; 

Many  storms  do  there  arise, 

Which  will  he  to  ladies  dreadful, 

And  force  tears  from  wat’ry  eyes.” 

“ Well  in  worth  I could  endure  extremity, 
For  I could  find  in  heart  to  lose  my  life  for 
thee.” 

“Courteous  lady,  be  contented; 

Here  comes  all  that  breeds  the  strife ; , 

I in  England  have  already 
A sweet  woman  to  my  wife : 

I will  not  falsifie  my  vow  for  gold  or  gain, 
Nor  yet  for  all  the  fairest  dames  that  live  in 
Spain.” 

“ O how  happy  is  that  woman 
That  enjoys  so  true  a friend! 

Many  days  of  joy  God  send  you! 

Of  my  suit  I ’ll  make  an  end : 

On  my  knees  I pardon  crave  for  this  offence, 
Which  love  and  true  affection  did  first  com- 
mence. 

“ Commend  me  to  thy  loving  lady ; 

Bear  to  her  this  chain  of  gold, 

And  these  bracelets  for  a token ; 

Grieving  that  I was  so  bold. 

All  my  jewels  in  like  sort  bear  thou  with  thee, 
For  these  are  fitting  for  thy  wife,  and  not  for 
me. 

“ I will  spend  my  days  in  prayer, 

Love  and  all  her  laws  defie ; 

In  a nunnery  will  I shroud  me, 

Far  from  other  company  : 

But  ere  my  prayers  have  end,  be  sure  of  this, 
To  pray  for  thee  and  for  thy  love  I will  not 
miss. 

“ Thus  farewell,  most  gentle  captain, 

And  farewell  my  heart’s  content ! 

Count  not  Spanish  ladies  wanton, 

Though  to  thee  my  love  was  bent : 

Joy  and  true  prosperity  goe  still  with  thee ! ” 
“The  like  fall  ever  to  thy  share,  most  fair 
lady.” 

Anonymous. 


THE  HERMIT. 

“ Tubist,  gentle  Hermit  of  the  dale, 

And  guide  my  lonely  way 

To  where  yon  taper  cheers  the  vale 
With  hospitable  ray. 

“For  here  forlorn  and  lost  I tread, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow ; 

Where  wilds,  immeasurably  spread, 
Sc«m  lengthening  as  I go.” 

“Forbear,  my  son,”  the  Hermit  cries, 

“ To  tempt  the  dangerous  gloom ; 

For  yonder  faithless  phantom  flies 
To  lure  thee  to  thy  doom. 

“ Here  to  the  houseless  child  of  want 
My  door  is  open  still ; 

And  though  my  portion  is  but  scant, 

I give  it  with  good  will. 

“ Then  turn  to-night,  and  freely  share 
Whate’er  my  cell  bestows ; 

My  rushy  couch  and  frugal  fare, 

My  blessing  and  repose. 

“ Ho  flocks  that  range  the  valley  free 
To  slaughter  I condemn ; 

Taught  by  that  Power  that  pities  me, 

I learn  to  pity  them ; 

“ But  from  the  mountain’s  grassy  side 
A guiltless  feast  I bring ; 

A scrip  with  herbs  and  fruits  supplied, 
And  water  from  the  spring. 

“Then,  pilgrim,  turn,  thy  cares  forego  ; 
All  earth-born  cares  are  wrong : 

Man  wants  but  little  here  below, 

Hor  wants  that  little  long.” 

Soft  as  the  dew  from  heaven  descends, 
His  gentle  accents  fell ; 

The  modest  stranger  lowly  bends, 

And  follows  to  the  cell. 

Far  in  a wilderness  obscure 
The  lonely  mansion  lay ; 

A refuge  to  the  neighboring  poor, 

And  strangers  led  astray. 


THE  HERMIT.  2 11 

No  stores  beneath  its  bumble  tbatcb 
Required  a master’s  care : 

The  wicket,  opening  with  a latch, 
Received  the  harmless  pair. 

“ For  shame,  fond  youth ! thy  sorrows  hush, 
And  spurn  the  sex,”  he  said; 

But,  while  he  spoke,  a rising  blush 
His  lovelorn  guest  betrayed. 

And  now,  when  busy  crowds  retire 
To  take  their  evening  rest, 

The  Hermit  trimmed  his  little  fire, 
And  cheered  his  pensive  guest ; 

Surprised,  he  sees  new  beauties  rise, 
Swift  mantling  to  the  view : 

Like  colors  o’er  the  morning  skies, 
As  bright,  as  transient  too. 

And  spread  his  vegetable  store, 
And  gayly  prest  and  smiled ; 
And,  skilled  in  legendary  lore, 
The  lingering  hours  beguiled. 

The  bashful  look,  the  rising  breast, 
Alternate  spread  alarms : 

The  lovely  stranger  stands  contest 
A maid  in  all  her  charms. 

Around,  in  sympathetic  mirth, 

Its  tricks  the  kitten  tries ; 

The  cricket  chirrups  on  the  hearth ; 
The  crackling  fagot  flies. 

“And,  ah ! forgive  a stranger  rude, 

A wretch  forlorn,”  she  cried ; 

“ Whose  feet  unhallowed  thus  intrude 
Where  heaven  and  you  reside. 

But  nothing  could  a charm  impart 
To  soothe  the  stranger’s  woe : 
For  grief  was  heavy  at  his  heart, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

“ But  let  a maid  thy  pity  share, 
Whom  love  has  taught  to  stray ; 
Who  seeks  for  rest,  but  finds  despair 
Companion  of  her  way. 

His  rising  cares  the  Hermit  spied, 

With  answering  care  opprest: 

“And  whence,  unhappy  youth,”  he  cried, 
“ The  sorrows  of  thy  breast  ? 

“ My  father  lived  beside  the  Tyne, 

A wealthy  lord  was  he ; 

And  all  his  wealth  was  marked  as  mine, 
He  had  but  only  me. 

“ From  better  habitations  spurned, 
Reluctant  dost  thou  rove  ? 

Or  grieve  for  friendship  unreturned, 
Or  unregarded  love  ? 

“ To  win  me  from  his  tender  arms, 
Unnumbered  suitors  came ; 

Who  praised  me  for  imputed  charms, 
And  felt,  or  feigned,  a flame. 

“ Alas ! the  joys  that  fortune  brings 
Are  trifling,  and  decay ; 

And  those  who  prize  the  paltry  things, 
More  trifling  still  than  they. 

“ Each  hour  a mercenary  crowd 
With  richest  proffers  strove  : 
Among  the  rest  young  Edwin  bowed, 
But  never  talked  of  love. 

“ And  what  is  friendship  but  a name, 
A charm  that  lulls  to  sleep ; 

A shade  that  follows  wealth  or  fame, 
And  leaves  the  wretch  to  weep  ? 

“ In  humble,  simplest  habit  clad, 

No  wealth  or  power  had  he ; 
Wisdom  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

“ And  love  is  still  an  emptier  sound, 
The  modern  fair  one’s  jest ; 

On  earth  unseen,  or  only  found 
To  warm  the  turtle’s  nest. 

“ And  when  beside  me  in  the  dale 
He  carolled  lays  of  love, 

His  breath  lent  fragrance  to  the  gale, 
And  music  to  the  grove. 

218 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


“ The  blossom  opening  to  the  day, 

The  dews  of  heaven  refined, 

Conld  nought  of  purity  display 
To  emulate  his  mind. 

“ The  dew,  the  blossoms  of  the  tree, 

With  charms  inconstant  shine  ; 

Their  charms  were  his,  but,  woe  to  me ! 
Their  constancy  was  mine. 

“For  still  I tried  each  fickle  art. 
Importunate  and  vain ; 

And  while  his  passion  touched  my  heart, 

I triumphed  in  his  pain : 

“Till,  quite  dejected  with  my  scorn, 

He  left  me  to  my  pride ; 

And  sought  a solitude  forlorn, 

In  secret,  where  he  died. 

“ But  mine  the  sorrow,  mine  the  fault, 
And  well  my  life  shall  pay ; 

I’ll  seek  the  solitude  he  sought, 

And  stretch  me  where  he  lay. 

“ And  there  forlorn,  despairing,  hid, 

I’ll  lay  me  down  and  die  ; 

’Twas  so  for  me  that  Edwin  did, 

And  so  for  him  will  I.” 

“Forbid  it,  Heaven!  ” the  Hermit  cried, 
And  clasped  her  to  his  breast ; 

The  wondering  fair  one  turned  to  chide, — 
’Twas  Edwin’s  self  that  prest. 

“ Turn,  Angelina,  ever  dear, 

My  charmer,  turn  to  see 

Thy  own,  thy  long-lost  Edwin  here, 
Eestored  to  love  and  thee. 

“ Thus  let  me  hold  thee  to  my  heart, 

And  every  care  resign ; 

And  shall  we  never,  never  part, 

My  life — my  all  that’s  mine  ? 

“ Ho,  never  from  this  hour  to  part, 

We’ll  live  and  love  so  true ; 

The  sigh  that  rends  thy  constant  heart 
Shah  break  thy  Edwin’s  too.” 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


SWEET  WILLIAM’S  FAREWELL  TO 
BLACK-EYED  SUSAH. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard. 

Oh ! where  shall  I my  true-love  find  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  your  crew. 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billows  to  and  fro, 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard, 

He  sighed  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing 
hands, 

And,  quick  as  lightning,  on  the  deck  he 
stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 
If  chance  his  mate’s  shrill  call  he  hear, 

And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William’s  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

0 Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain ; 

Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 

Change,  as  ye  list,  ye  winds ; my  heart  shall 
be 

The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say, 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind: 
They  ’ll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 

In  every  port  a mistress  find : 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 
For  thou  art  present  whereso’er  I go. 

If  to  fair  India’s  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric’s  spicy  gale, 

Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I view, 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue 


. 


THE  SEAMAN’S  HAPPY  RETURN. 


21S 


Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 

Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms, 
'William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 

Love  turns  aside  the  halls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan’s 
eye. 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread ; 

No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 

They  kissed,  she  sighed,  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land : 
Adieu ! she  cries ; and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

John  Gat. 


THE  SEAMAN’S  HAPPY  RETURN. 

When  Sol  did  cast  no  light,  being  darkened 
over, 

And  the  dark  time  of  night  did  the  skies 
cover, 

Running  a river  by,  there  were  ships  sail- 
ing, 

A maid  most  fair  I spied,  crying  and  wailing. 

Unto  this  maid  I stept,  asking  what  grieved 
her, 

She  answered  me  and  wept,  fates  had  de- 
ceived her : 

My  love  is  prest,  quoth  she,  to  cross  the 
ocean — 

Proud  waves  to  make  the  ship  ever  in  motion. 

We  loved  seven  years  and  more,  both  being 
sure, 

But  I am  left  on  shore,  grief  to  endure. 

He  promised  back  to  turn,  if  life  was  spared 
him, 

With  grief  I daily  mourn  death  hath  de- 
barred him. 

Straight  a brisk  lad  she  spied,  made  her  ad- 
mire, 

A present  she  received  pleased  her  desire. 

Is  my  love  safe,  quoth  she,  will  he  come  near 
me? 

The  young  man  answer  made,  Virgin,  pray 
hear  me. 


Under  one  banner  bright,  for  England’s  glory, 

Your  love  and  I did  fight — mark  well  my 
story ; 

By  an  unhappy  shot  we  two  were  parted ; 

His  death’s  wound  then  he  got,  though 
valiant-hearted. 

All  this  I witness  can,  for  I stood  by  him, 

For  courage,  I must  say,  none  did  outvie 
him ; 

He  still  would  foremost  be,  striving  for 
honour ; 

But  Fortune  is  a cheat, — vengeance  upon  her ! 

But  ere  he  was  quite  dead,  or  his  heart 
broken, 

To  me  these  words  he  said,  Pray  give  this 
token 

To  my  love,  for  there  is  than  she  no  fairer ; 

Tell  her  she  must  be  kind  and  love  the 
bearer. 

Intombed  he  now  doth  lye  in  stately  manner, 

’Cause  he  fought  valiantly  for  love  and  hon- 
our. 

That  right  he  had  in  you,  to  me  he  gave  it ; 

Now  since  it  is  my  due,  pray  let  me  have  it. 

She,  raging,  flung  away  like  one  distracted, 

Not  knowing  what  to  say,  nor  what  she 
acted. 

So  last  she  cursed  her  fate,  and  showed  her 
anger, 

Saying,  Friend,  you  come  too  late,  I ’ll  have 
no  stranger. 

To  your  own  house  return,  I am  best  pleased 

Here  for  my  love  to  mourn,  since  he ’s  de- 
ceased. 

In  sable  weeds  I ’ll  go,  let  who  will  jeer  me ; 

Since  death  has  served  me  so,  none  shall 
come  near  me. 

The  chaste  Penelope  mourned  for  Ulysses, 

I have  more  grief  than  she,  robbed  of  my 
blisses. 

I ’ll  ne’er  love  man  again,  therefore  pray  hear 
me ; 

I ’ll  slight  you  with  disdain  if  you  come  near 
me. 


220 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


I know  lie  loved  me  well,  for  when  we 
parted, 

None  did  in  grief  excel, — both  were  true- 
hearted. 

Those  promises  we  made  ne’er  shall  he 
broken ; 

Those  words  that  then  he  said  ne’er  shall  be 
spoken. 

He  hearing  what  she  said,  made  his  love 
stronger, 

Off  his  disguise  he  laid,  and  staid  no  longer. 

When  her  dear  love  she  knew,  in  wanton 
fashion 

Into  his  arms  she  flew, — such  is  love’s  pas- 
sion! 

He  asked  her  how  she  liked  his  counter- 
feiting, 

Whether  she  was  well  pleased  with  such  like 
greeting  ? 

You  are  well  versed,  quoth  she,  in  several 
speeches, 

Could  you  coin  money  so,  you  might  get 
riches. 

O happy  gale  of  wind  that  waft  thee  over! 

May  heaven  preserve  that  ship  that  brought 
my  lover ! 

Come  kiss  me  now,  my  sweet,  true  love’s  no 
slander ; 

Thou  shalt  my  Hero  be,  I thy  Leander. 

Dido  of  Carthage  queen  loved  stout  iEneas, 

But  my  true  love  is  found  more  true  than  he 
was. 

Venus  ne’er  fonder  was  of  younger  Adonis, 

Than  I will  be  of  thee,  since  thy  love  her 
own  is. 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  walk  with  mirth 
and  pleasure, 

They  laugh,  they  kiss,  they  talk — love  knows 
no  measure. 

Now  both  do  sit  and  sing — but  she  sings 
clearest ; 

Like  nightingale  in  Spring,  Welcome  my 
dearest ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 

i. 

St.  Agnes’  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was ! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold  ; 

The  hare  limped  trembling  through  the  frozen 
grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold : 
Numb  were  the  Beadman’s  fingers  while  he 
told 

His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 

Like  pious  incense  from  a censer  old, 

Seemed  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a 
death, 

Past  the  sweet  Virgin’s  picture,  while  his 
prayer  he  saith. 

n. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man ; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his 
knees, 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees ; 

The  sculptured  dead,  on  each  side  seem  to 
freeze, 

Emprisoned  in  black,  purgatorial  rails ; 
Knights,  ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat’ries, 
He  passed  by  ; and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods 
and  mails. 

in. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music’s  golden 
tongue 

Flattered  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor ; 
But  no — already  had  his  death-bell  rung ; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said  and  sung ; 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes’  Eve ; 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul’s  reprieve, 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinners’  sake 
to  grieve. 

IV. 

That  ancient  Beadsman  heard  the  prelude  soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.  Soon,  up  aloft, 

The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  ’gan  to  chide  ; 


THE  EYE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


221 


The  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride, 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a thousand  guests ; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 

Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice 
rests, 

With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross- 
wise on  their  breasts. 

Y. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new-stuffed,  in  youth,  with 
triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance.  These  let  us  wish  away ; 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there, 
Whose  heart  had  brooded,  all  that  wintry 
day, 

On  love,  and  winged  St.  Agnes’  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times 
declare. 

vi. 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes’  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight, 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honeyed  middle  of  the  night, 

If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright ; 

As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 

And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white ; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sideways,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that 
they  desire. 

VII. 

Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  yearning  like  a God  in  pain, 

She  scarcely  heard ; her  maiden  eyes  divine, 
Fixed  on  the  floor,  saw  many  a sweeping 
train 

Pass  by — she  heeded  not  at  all ; in  vain 
Came  many  a tiptoe,  amorous  cavalier, 

And  back  retired ; not  cooled  by  high  dis- 
dain, 

But  she  saw  not ; her  heart  was  otherwhere ; 
She  sighed  for  Agnes’  dreams,  the  sweetest 
of  the  year. 

VIII. 

She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and 
short ; 


The  hallowed  hour  was  near  at  hand;  she 
sighs 

Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  thronged  resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger,  or  in  sport ; 

’Mid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwinked  with  fairy  fancy  ; all  amort 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn, 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow 
morn. 

IX. 

So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 

She  lingered  still.  Meantime,  across  the 
moors, 

Had  come  young  Porphyro,  with  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.  Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttressed  from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and 
implores 

All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline ; 

But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours, 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss — in  sooth 
such  things  have  been. 

x. 

He  ventures  in ; let  no  buzzed  whisper  tell ; 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love’s  feverous  citadel ; 
For  him,  those  chambers  held  barbarian 
hordes, 

Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords, 

Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage ; not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy,  in  that  mansion  foul 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in 
soul. 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance ! the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory -headed  wand, 

To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch’s 
flame, 

Behind  a broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her ; but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasped  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  “ Mercy,  Porphyro ! hie  thee  from 
this  place ; 

They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  blood- 
thirsty race ! 


222 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


XII. 

“Get  hence!  get  hence!  there’s  dwarfish 
Hildebrand ; 

He  had  a fever  late,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thine,  both  house  and 
land ; 

Then  there’s  that  old  Lord  Maurice,  not  a 
whit 

More  tame  for  his  gray  hairs — Alas  me  ! flit ! 
Flit  like  a ghost  away ! ” — “Ah,  Gossip  dear, 
We  ’re  safe  enough ; here  in  this  arm-chair 
sit, 

And  tell  me  how  ” — “ Good  saints,  not  here, 
not  here ; 

Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be 
thy  bier.” 

XIII. 

He  followed  through  a lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume  ; 
And  as  she  muttered  “ Well-a — well-a-day ! ” 
He  found  him  in  a little  moonlight  room, 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a tomb. 

“ How  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,”  said  he, 

“ O tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes’  wool  are  weaving 
piously.” 

XIV. 

“ St.  Agnes ! Ah ! it  is  St.  Agnes’  Eve — 

Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days ; 

Thou  must  hold  water  in  a witch’s  sieve, 

And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so.  It  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee  Porphyro ! — St.  Agnes’  Eve ! 
God’s  help ! my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night ; good  angels  her  deceive ! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I ’ve  mickle  time 
to  grieve.” 

xv. 

Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  closed  a wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney  nook. 

But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she 
told 


His  lady’s  purpose  ; and  he  scarce  could 
brook 

Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments 
cold, 

And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 


XVI. 

Sudden  a thought  came  like  a full-blown 
rose, 

Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot ; then  doth  he  propose 
A stratagem,  that  makes  the  beldame  start : 

“ A cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 

Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.  Go,  go!  I deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou 
didst  seem.” 

XVII. 

“ I will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I swear !” 
Quoth  Porphyro  ; “0  may  I ne’er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last 
prayer, 

If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I displace, 

Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face ; 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 

Or  I will,  even  in  a moment’s  space, 

Awake,  with  horrid  shout,  my  foemen’s  ears, 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fanged 
than  wolves  and  bears.” 


XVIII. 

“Ah ! why  wilt  thou  affright  a feeble  soul  ? 

A poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  church-yard 
thing, 

Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight 
toll ; 

Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and 
evening, 

Were  never  missed.”  Thus  plaining,  doth 
she  bring 

A gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro  ; 

So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing, 

That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 

Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or 
woe. 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


223 


XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy, 
Even  to  Madeline’s  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a closet,  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied, 

And  win  perhaps  that  night  a peerless  bride ; 
While  legioned  fairies  paced  the  coverlet, 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a night  have  lovers  met, 

Since  Merlin  paid  his  demon  all  the  mon- 
strous debt. 

xx. 

“ It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,”  said  the  dame ; 
“ All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night ; by  the  tambour 
frame 

Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see  ; no  time  to  spare, 
For  I am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child,  with  patienee  kneel  in 
prayer 

The  while.  Ah!  thou  must  needs  the  lady 
wed, 

Or  may  I never  leave  my  grave  among  the 
dead.” 

XXI. 

So  saying  she  hobbled  off  with  busy  fear. 

The  lover’s  endless  minutes  slowly  pass’d ; 
The  dame  return’d,  and  whisper’d  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her ; with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.  Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  maiden’s  chamber,  silken,  hush’d  and 
chaste ; 

Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in 
her  brain. 

XXII. 

Her  faltering  hand  upon  the  balustrade, 

Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 

When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes’  charmed  maid, 
Rose,  like  a mission’d  spirit,  unaware ; 

With  silver  taper’s  light,  and  pious  care, 

She  turn’d,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a safe  level  matting.  Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ! 

She  comes,  she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove 
frayed  and  fled. 


XXIII. 

Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 

Its  little  smoke,  in  pallid  moonshine,  died ; 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide; 

No  uttered  syllable,  or,  woe  betide! 

But  to  her  heart,  her  heart  was  voluble, 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side ; 

As  though  a tongueless  nightingale  should 
swell 

Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled  in 
her  dell. 

XXIV. 

A casement  high  and  triple-arched  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  bunches  of  knot- 
grass 

And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes, 

As  are  the  tiger-moth’s  deep-damask’d  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  ’mong  thousand  heraldries, 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A shielded  scutcheon  blush’d  with  blood  of 
queens  and  kings. 

xxv. 

Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline’s  fair 
breast, 

As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven’s  grace  and 
boon; 

Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 

And  on  her  hair  a glory,  like  a saint ; 

She  seem’d  a splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.  Porphyro  grew  faint ; 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a thing,  so  free  from  mortal 
taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon  his  heart  revives ; her  vespers  done, 

Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ; by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees ; 
Half-hidden,  like  a mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees, 
In  fancy,  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 

But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm 
is  fled. 


224 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


XXVII. 

Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  chilly  nest, 

In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex’d  she  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppressed 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away ; 
Flown  like  a thought,  until  the  morrow-day ; 
Blissfully  havened  both  from  joy  and  pain; 
Clasp’d  like  a missal  where  swart  Paynims 
pray; 

Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a rose  should  shut,  and  be  a bud 
again. 

xxym. 

Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress, 

And  listen’d  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a slumberous  tenderness; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he 
bless, 

And  breathed  himself ; then  from  the  closet 
crept, 

Noiseless  as  fear  in  a wide  wilderness 
And  over  the  hushed  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  ’tween  the  curtains  peeped,  where,  lo ! — 
how  fast  she  slept. 

XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a dim,  silver  twilight,  soft  he  set 
A table,  and,  half  anguished,  threw  thereon 
A cloth  of  woven  crimson,  gold,  and  jet: — 

O for  some  drowsy  Morphean  amulet ! 

The  boisterous,  midnight,  festive  clarion, 

The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet, 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone  : — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise 
is  gone. 

xxx. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 

In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavendered  ; 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a 
heap 

Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and 
gourd ; 

With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrops,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferred 
From  Fez;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedared  Lebanon. 


XXXI. 

These  delicates  he  heap’d  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  silver.  Sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 

Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light. — 
“ And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair  awake! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I thine  eremite ; 
Open  thine  eyes,  for  meek  St.  Agnes’  sake, 

Or  I shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  my  soul 
doth  ache.” 

XXXII. 

Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.  Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains; — ’twas  a midnight 
charm 

Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream : 

The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies ; 

It  seemed  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a steadfast  spell  his  lady’s  eyes ; 
So  mused  awhile,  entoiled  in  woofed  phanta- 
sies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,  he  took  her  hollow  lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and,  in  chords  that  tenderest 
be, 

He  play’d  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  called  “La  belle  dame  sans 
mercy ; ” 

Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ; — 
Wherewith  disturbed,  she  utter’d  a soft  moan ; 
He  ceased—  she  panted  quick — and  suddenly 
Her  blue  affrayed  eyes  wide  open  shone ; 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth- 
sculptured  stone. 

XXXIV. 

Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 

Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep. 
There  was  a painful  change,  that  nigh  ex- 
pelled 

The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep  ; 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 

And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a 
sigh; 

While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep ; 


THE  EVE  OF  ST.  AGNES. 


"Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous 
eye, 

Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look’d  so  dream- 
ingly. 

XXXV. 

“ Ah,  Porphyro ! ” said  she,  “ hut  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  every  sweetest  vow ; 

And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear ; 
How  changed  thou  art!  how  pallid,  chill, 
and  drear ! 

Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 
Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings 
dear! 

Oh  leave  me  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 

For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,  I know  not  where 
to  go.” 

xxxvi. 

Beyond  a mortal  man  impassioned  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,  he  arose, 
Ethereal,  flushed,  and  like  a throbbing  star 
Seen  ’mid  the  sapphire  heaven’s  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth  its  odour  with  the  violet, — 
Solution  sweet;  meantime  the  frost-wind 
blows 

Like  Love’s  alarum  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes ; St.  Agnes’  moon 
hath  set. 

XXXVII. 

’T  is  dark ; quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown 
sleet ; 

“ This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline ! ” 
’T  is  dark ; the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat : 
“ No  dream,  alas ! alas ! and  woe  is  mine ! 
Porphyro  will  leave  me  here  to  fade  and 
pine. — 

Cruel ! what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a deceived  thing ; — 

A dove  forlorn  and  lost  with  sick  unpruned 
wing.” 

XXXVIII. 

“My  Madeline!  sweet  dreamer!  lovely  bride! 
Say,  may  I be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest  ? 

Thy  beauty’s  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil 
dyed? 


Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will  I take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 

A famish’d  pilgrim, — saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I have  found,  I will  not  rob  thy  nest, 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;  if  thou  think’st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel. 

xxxix. 

“ Hark ! ’tis  an  elfin  storm  from  fairy  land, 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a boon  indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the  morning  is  at  hand ; — 

The  bloated  wassailers  will  never  heed. 

Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see, — 
Drowned  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead. 
Awake ! arise ! my  love,  and  fearless  be, 

For  o’er  the  southern  moors  I have  a home 
for  thee.” 

XL. 

She  hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears — 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a darkling  way  they 
found, 

In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A chain-drooped  lamp  was  flickering  by  each 
door ; 

The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and 
hound, 

Fluttered  in  the  besieging  wind’s  uproar ; 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty 
floor. 

XLI. 

They  glide,  like  phantoms,  into  the  wide  hall ! 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 

With  a huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side  ; 

The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his 
hide, 

But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns ; 

By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide ; 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges 
groans. 

XLII. 

And  they  are  gone ! ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 


15 


226 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and 
form 

Of  witch,  and  demon,  and  large  coffin-worm, 
Were  long  be-nightmared.  Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitched,  with  meagre  face  de- 
form; 

The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told, 

For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes 
cold. 

Johx  Keats. 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  ANDALLA. 

“Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa!  lay  the  golden 
cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 
all  the  town ! 

From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes 
are  flowing, 

And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between  the 
trumpets’  lordly  blowing, 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light  are 
waving  every  where, 

And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin’s  bride- 
groom floats  proudly  in  the  air. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa ! lay  the  golden 
cushion  down ; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 
all  the  town ! 

“ Arise,  arise,  Xarifa ! I see  Amdalla’s  face — 

He  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a calm  and 
princely  grace ; 

Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres  and  banks  of 
Guadelquiver 

Rode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he,  so 
brave  and  lovely  never. 

Yon  tall  plume  waving  o’er  his  brow,  of  pur- 
ple mixed  with  white, 

I guess ’t  was  wreathed  by  Zara,  whom  he 
will  wed  to-night. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa ! lay  the  golden 
cushion  down; 

Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with 
all  the  town ! 

u What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa — what  makes 
thine  eyes  look  down  ? 

Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor  gaze 
with  all  the  town  ? 


I Ve  heard  you  say  on  many  a day,  and  sure 
you  said  the  truth, 

Andalla  rides  without  a peer  among  all 
Granada’s  youth : 

Without  a peer  he  rideth,  and  yon  milk-white 
horse  doth  go 

Beneath  his  stately  master,  with  a stately 
step  and  slow  : — 

Then  rise — 0 ! rise,  Xarifa,  lay  the  golden 
cushion  down; 

Unseen  here  through  the  lattice,  you  may 
gaze  with  all  the  town ! ” 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her  cushion 
down, 

Nor  came  she  to  the  window  to  gaze  with  all 
the  town ; 

But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in 
vain  her  fingers  strove, 

And  though  her  needle  pressed  the  silk,  no 
flower  Xarifa  wove ; 

One  bonny  rose-bud  she  had  traced  before 
the  noise  drew  nigh — 

That  bonny  bud  a tear  effaced,  slow  drooping 
from  her  eye — 

“ No — no ! ” she  sighs — “ bid  me  not  rise,  nor 
lay  my  cushion  down, 

To  gaze  upon  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing 
town ! ” 

“Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa — nor  lay  your 
cushion  down — 

Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa — with  all  the  gazing 
town? 

Hear,  hear  the  trumpet  how  it  swells,  and 
how  the  people  cry ; 

He  stops  at  Zara’s  palace-gate — why  sit  ye 
still — 0,  why  ? ” 

— “ At  Zara’s  gate  stops  Zara’s  mate ; in  him 
shall  I discover 

The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth 
with  tears,  and  was  my  lover  ? 

I will  not  rise,  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay  my 
cushion  down, 

To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing 
town ! ” 

Axoimcors.  (Spanish.) 

Translation  of  John  Gibsox  Lockhabt. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

THE  SLEEPING  PALACE. 

The  varying  year  with  blade  and  sheaf 
Clothes  and  re-clothes  the  happy  plains ; 
Here  rests  the  sap  within  the  leaf; 

Here  stays  the  blood  along  the  veins. 

Faint  shadows,  vapors  lightly  curled, 

Faint  murmurs  from  the  meadows  come, 
Like  hints  and  echoes  of  the  world 
To  spirits  folded  in  the  womb. 

Soft  lustre  bathes  the  range  of  urns 
On  every  slanting  terrace-lawn, 

The  fountain  to  his  place  returns, 

Deep  in  the  garden  lake  withdrawn. 

Here  droops  the  banner  on  the  tower, 

On  the  hall-hearths  the  festal  fires, 

The  peacock  in  his  laurel  bower, 

The  parrot  in  his  gilded  wires. 

Roof-haunting  martins  warm  their  eggs ; 

In  these,  in  those  the  life  is  stayed. 

The  mantles  from  the  golden  pegs 
Droop  sleepily.  Ho  sound  is  made — 

Hot  even  of  a gnat  that  sings. 

More  like  a picture  seemeth  all, 

Than  those  old  portraits  of  old  kings 
That  watch  the  sleepers  from  the  wall. 

Here  sits  the  butler  with  a flask 
Between  his  knees,  half-drained ; and  there 
The  wrinkled  steward  at  his  task ; 

The  maid-of-honor  blooming  fair, 

The  page  has  caught  her  hand  in  his ; 

Her  lips  are  severed  as  to  speak ; 

His  own  are  pouted  to  a kiss ; 

The  blush  is  fixed  upon  her  cheek. 

Till  all  the  hundred  summers  pass, 

The  beams,  that  through  the  oriel  shine, 
Make  prisms  in  every  carven  glass, 

And  beaker  brimmed  with  noble  wine. 
Each  baron  at  the  banquet  sleeps ; 

Grave  faces  gathered  in  a ring, 
nis  state  the  king  reposing  keeps : 

He  must  have  been  a jolly  king. 

All  round  a hedge  upshoots,  and  shows 
At  distance  like  a little  wood  ; 

Thorns,  ivies,  woodbine,  mistletoes, 

And  grapes  with  bunches  red  as  blood ; 


221 

All  creeping  plants,  a wall  of  green 

Close-matted,  burr  and  brake  and  briar, 

And  glimpsing  over  these,  just  seen, 

High  up,  the  topmost  palace-spire. 

When  will  the  hundred  summers  die, 

And  thought  and  time  be  born  again, 

And  newer  knowledge,  drawing  nigh, 

Bring  truth  that  sways  the  soul  of  men  ? 

Here  all  things  in  their  place  remain, 

As  all  were  ordered,  ages  since. 

Come  Care  and  Pleasure,  Hope  and  Pain, 
And  bring  the  fated  fairy  Prince ! 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY. 

Year  after  year  unto  her  feet, 

She  lying  on  her  couch  alone, 

Across  the  purple  coverlet, 

The  maiden’s  jet-black  hair  has  grown  ; 

On  either  side  her  tranced  form 
Forth  streaming  from  a braid  of  pearl ; 

The  slumb’rous  light  is  rich  and  warm, 

And  moves  not  on  the  rounded  curl. 

The  silk  star-broidered  coverlid 
Unto  her  limbs  itself  doth  mould, 

Languidly  ever ; and,  amid 

Her  full  black  ringlets,  downward  rolled, 

Glows  forth  each  softly-shadowed  arm, 

With  bracelets  of  the  diamond  bright. 

Her  constant  beauty  doth  inform 

Stillness  with  love,  and  day  with  light. 

She  sleeps ; her  breathings  are  not  heard 
In  palace  chambers  far  apart. 

The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirred 
That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 

She  sleeps ; on  either  hand  upswells 
The  gold-fringed  pillow  lightly  prest ; 

She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  ever  dwells 
A perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. 

THE  AKRIVAL. 

All  precious  things,  discovered  late, 

To  those  that  seek  them  issue  forth ; 

For  love  in  sequel  works  with  fate, 

And  draws  the  veil  from  hidden  worth. 

Ho  travels  far  from  other  skies — 

His  mantle  glitters  on  the  rocks-  — 

A fairy  Prince,  with  joyful  eyes, 

And  lighter-footed  than  the  fox. 


228 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 
That  strove  in  other  days  to  pass, 

Are  withered  in  the  thorny  close, 

Or  scattered  blanching  in  the  grass. 

He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead : 

“ They  perished  in  their  daring  deeds.” 
This  proverb  flashes  through  his  head : 

“ The  many  fail ; the  one  succeeds.” 

He  comes,  scarce  knowing  what  he  seeks. 

He  breaks  the  hedge ; he  enters  there ; 
The  color  flies  into  his  cheeks ; 

He  trusts  to  light  on  something  fair ; 

For  all  his  life  the  charm  did  talk 
About  his  path,  and  hover  near 
With  words  of  promise  in  his  walk, 

And  whispered  voices  in  his  ear. 

More  close  and  close  his  footsteps  wind ; 

The  magic  music  in  his  heart 
Beats  quick  and  quicker,  till  he  find 
The  quiet  chamber  far  apart. 

His  spirit  flutters  like  a lark, 

He  stoops — to  kiss  her — on  his  knee  : 

“ Love,  if  thy  tresses  he  so  dark, 

How  dark  those  hidden  eyes  must  be ! ” 

THE  BEVIVAL. 

A touch,  a kiss ! the  charm  was  snapt. 

There  rose  a noise  of  striking  clocks ; 

And  feet  that  ran,  and  doors  that  clapt, 

ASid  harking  dogs,  and  crowing  cocks ; 

A fuller  light  illumined  all ; 

A breeze  through  all  the  garden  swept ; 

A sudden  hubbub  shook  the  hall ; 

And  sixty  feet  the  fountain  leapt. 

The  hedge  broke  in,  the  banner  blew, 

The  butler  drank,  the  steward  scrawled, 
The  fire  shot  up,  the  martin  flew, 

The  parrot  screamed,  the  peacock  squalled; 
The  maid  and  page  renewed  their  strife ; 

The  palace  banged,  and  buzzed  and  clackt; 
And  all  the  long-pent  stream  of  life 
Dashed  downward  in  a cataract. 

And  last  of  all  the  king  awoke, 

And  in  his  chair  himself  upreared, 

And  yawned,  and  rubbed  his  face,  and  spoke ; 
“ By  holy  rood,  a royal  beard ! 


How  say  you  ? we  have  slept,  my  lords ; 

My  beard  has  grown  into  my  lap.” 

The  barons  swore,  with  many  words, 

’T  was  but  an  after-dinner’s  nap. 

“Pardy!”  returned  the  king,  “but  still 
My  joints  are  something  stiff  or  so. 

My  lord,  and  shall  we  pass  the  bill 
I mentioned  half  an  hour  ago  ? ” 

The  chancellor,  sedate  and  vain, 

In  courteous  words  returned  reply ; 

But  dallied  with  his  golden  chain, 

And,  smiling,  put  the  question  by. 

THE  DEPAETUEE. 

And  on  her  lover’s  arm  she  leant, 

And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold ; 

And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 
In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old. 

Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 

And  deep  into  the  dying  day, 

The  happy  princess  followed  him. 

“ I ’d  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

0 love,  for  such  another  kiss ! ” 

“ O wake  for  ever,  love,”  she  hears, 

“0  love,  ’twas  such  as  this  and  this.” 

And  o’er  them  many  a sliding  star, 

And  many  a merry  wind  was  borne, 

And,  streamed  through  many  a golden  bar, 
The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

“ 0 eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep ! ” 

“ O happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled ! ” 

“ O happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep ! ” 

“ 0 love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead ! ” 
And  o’er  them  many  a flowing  range 
Of  vapor  buoyed  the  crescent  bark ; 

And,  rapt  through  many  a rosy  change, 

The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

“A  hundred  summers ! can  it  be? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where ! ” 
“ O seek  my  father’s  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there.” 

And  o’er  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 

Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Through  all  the  world  she  followed  him. 

Alfred  Texntson. 


SERRANA. 


MARY  OF  CASTLE  CARY. 

“Saw  ye  my  wee  thing?  saw  ye  my  ain 
thing  ? 

Saw  ye  my  true-love  down  hy  yon  lea? 

Crossed  she  the  meadow,  yestreen,  at  the 
gloaming? 

Sought  she  the  hurnie,  where  flowers  the 
haw-tree? 

“ Her  hair  it  is  lint- white ; her  skin  it  is  milk- 
white  ; 

Dark  is  the  blue  o’  her  saft-rolling  ee ! 

Red,  red  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than 
roses; 

Where  could  my  wee  thing  wander  frae  me?  ” 

“I  sawna  your  wee  thing;  I sawna  your  ain 
thing; 

Nor  saw  I your  true-love  down  by  yon  lea ; 

But  I met  my  bonnie  thing  late  in  the  gloam- 
ing, 

Down  hy  the  hurnie  where  flowers  the  haw- 
tree. 

“ Her  hair  it  was  lint- white ; her  skin  it  was 
milk-white ; 

Dark  was  the  blue  o’  her  saft-rolling  ee ! 

Red  were  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than 
roses ; 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gae  to  me.” 

“ It  wasna  my  wee  thing ; it  wasna  mine  ain 
thing; 

It  wasna  my  true-love  ye  met  hy  the  tree ; 

Proud  is  her  leal  heart,  and  modest  her  na- 
ture ; 

She  never  lo’ed  ony  till  ance  she  lo’ed  me. 

“ Her  name  it  is  Mary ; she ’s  frae  Castle 
Cary; 

Aft  has  she  sat  when  a bairn  on  my  knee ; 

Fair  as  your  face  is,  were’t  fifty  times  fairer, 

Young  braggar,  she  ne’er  wad  gie  kisses  to 
thee.” 

“It  was  then  your  Mary;  she’s  frae  Castle 
Cary; 

It  was  then  your  true-love  I met  by  the  tree; 

Proud  as  her  heart  is,  and  modest  her  nature, 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gae  to  me.” 


229 

Sair  gloomed  his  dark  brow ; blood-red  his 
cheek  grew ; 

Wild  flashed  the  fire  frae  his  red-rolling  ee ! 

“Ye’s  rue  sair  this  morning  your  boasting 
and  scorning, 

Defend  ye,  fause  traitor ; fu’  loudly  ye  lie ! ” 

“ Awa  wi’  beguiling,”  cried  the  youth  smiling; 

Aff  gade  the  bonnet,  the  lint- white  locks  flee ; 

The  belted  plaid  fa’ing,  her  white  bosom 
sha’ing, 

Fair  stood  the  loved  maid  wi’  the  dark-rolling 
ee! 

“ Is  it  my  wee  thing  ? is  it  mine  ain  thing  ? 

Is  it  my  true-love  here  that  I see  ? ” 

“O,  Jamie,  forgie  me!  your  heart’s  constant 
to  me — 

I ’ll  never  mair  wander,  dear  laddie,  frae  thee.” 
Hectob  Macneil. 


SERRANA. 

I ne’ek  on  the  border 
Saw  girl  fair  as  Rosa, 

The  charming  milk-maiden 
Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Once  making  a journey 
To  Santa  Maria 
Of  Calataveno, 

From  weary  desire 
Of  sleep,  down  a valley 
I strayed,  where  young  Rosa 
I saw,  the  milk-maiden 
Of  lone  Finojosa. 

In  a pleasant  green  meadow, 
’Midst  roses  and  grasses, 

Her  herd  she  was  tending, 

With  other  fair  lasses ; 

So  lovely  her  aspect, 

I could  not  suppose  her 
A simple  milk-maiden 
Of  rude  Finojosa. 

I think  not  primroses 
Have  half  her  smile’s  sweetness, 
Or  mild,  modest  beauty ; 

I speak  with  discreetness. 


230 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


O,  had  I beforehand 
But  known  of  this  Rosa, 

The  lovely  milk-maiden 
Of  fair  Finojosa ! 

Her  very  great  beauty 
Had  not  so  subdued, 

Because  it  had  left  me, 

To  do  as  I would ! 

I have  said  more,  O fair  one, 

By  learning ’t  was  Rosa, 

The  charming  milk-maiden 
Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Lope  de  Mendoza.  (Spanish.) 

Translation  of  J.  II.  Wiffen. 


ZARA’S  EAR-RINGS. 

My  ear-rings ! my  ear-rings ! they’ve  dropped 
into  the  well, 

And  what  to  say  to  Muga,  I cannot,  cannot 
tell — 

’T  was  thus,  Granada’s  fountain  by,  spoke 
Albuharez’  daughter : — 

The  well  is  deep — far  down  they  lie,  beneath 
the  cold  blue  water ; 

To  me  did  Muga  give  them,  when  he  spake 
his  sad  farewell, 

And  what  to  say  when  he  comes  back,  alas ! 
I cannot  tell. 

My  ear-rings  ! my  ear-rings  ! — they  were 
pearls  in  silver  set, 

That,  when  my  Moor  was  far  away,  I ne’er 
should  him  forget ; 

That  I ne’er  to  other  tongues  should  list,  nor 
smile  on  other’s  tale, 

But  remember  he  my  lips  had  kissed,  pure 
as  those  ear-rings  pale. 

When  he  comes  back,  and  hears  that  I have 
dropped  them  in  the  well, 

Oh ! what  will  Muga  think  of  me ! — I cannot, 
cannot  tell ! 

My  ear-rings ! my  ear-rings ! — he’ll  say  they 
should  have  been, 

Not  of  pearl  and  of  silver,  but  of  gold  and 
glittering  sheen, 


Of  jasper  and  of  onyx,  and  of  diamond  shin- 
ing clear, 

Changing  to  the  changing  light,  with  radiance 
insincere ; 

That  changeful  mind  unchanging  gems  are 
not  befitting  well, 

Thus  will  he  think — and  what  to  say,  alas ! 

I cannot  tell. 

He  ’ll  think,  when  I to  market  went  I loitered 
by  the  way ; 

He  ’ll  think  a willing  ear  I lent  to  all  the  lads 
might  say ; 

He  ’ll  think  some  other  lover’s  hand,  among 
my  tresses  noosed, 

From  the  ears  where  he  had  placed  them  my 
rings  of  pearl  unloosed ; 

He’ll  think  when  I was  sporting  so  beside 
his  marble  well 

My  pearls  fell  in — and  what  to  say,  alas ! I 
. cannot  tell. 

He  ’ll  say,  I am  a woman,  and  we  are  all  the 
same ; 

He’ll  say,  I loved,  when  he  was  here  to 
whisper  of  his  flame — 

But  when  he  went  to  Tunis,  my  virgin  troth 
had  broken, 

And  thought  no  more  of  Muga,  and  cared  not 
for  his  token. 

My  ear-rings!  my  ear-rings:  oh!  luckless, 
luckless  well, — 

For  what  to  say  to  Muga — alas ! I cannot  tell. 

I ’ll  tell  the  truth  to  Muga — and  I hope  he 
will  believe — 

That  I thought  of  him  at  morning  and  thought 
of  him  at  eve ; 

That,  musing  on  my  lover,  when  down  the 
sun  was  gone, 

His  ear-rings  in  my  hand  I held,  by  the  foun- 
tain all  alone ; 

And  that  my  mind  was  o’er  the  sea,  when 
from  my  hand  they  fell, 

And  that  deep  his  love  lies  in  my  heart,  as 
they  lie  in  the  well. 

Anonymous.  (Spanish.) 

Translation  of  John  Gibson  Lockhaet. 


WATCH  SONG. 


23x 


THE  SPINNING-WHEEL  SONG. 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning; 
Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spin- 
ning; 

Bent  o’er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother, 
sitting, 

Is  croaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knit- 
ting— 

“Eileen,  achora,  I hear  some  one  tapping.” 
“’Tis  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass 
flapping.” 

“ Eileen,  I surely  hear  somebody  sighing.” 
“’Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer 
wind  dying.” 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 
foot’s  stirring; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 
singing. 

“What’s  that  noise  that  I hear  at  the  window, 
I wonder  ? ” 

“’Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush 
under.” 

“ What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving 
your  stool  on, 

And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  ‘ The 
Coolun  ? ’ ” 

There’s  a form  at  the  casement — the  form  of 
her  true  love — 

And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  “I’m  wait- 
ing for  you,  love ; 

Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step 
lightly, 

We’ll  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon’s 
shining  brightly.” 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the 
foot ’s  stirring ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 
Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden 
singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays 
her  fingers, 

Steals  up  from  her  seat — longs  to  go,  and  yet 
lingers ; 


A frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy 
grandmother, 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  whee 
with  the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round ; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel’s 
sound ; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of 
her  lover. 

Slower — and  slower — and  slower  the  wheel 
swings ; 

Lower — and  lower — and  lower  the  reel  rings; 

Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stop  their  ring- 
ing and  moving, 

Through  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moon- 
light are  roving. 

John  Fkancis  Wallee. 


WATCH  SONG. 

The  sun  is  gone  down, 

And  the  moon  upward  springeth  ; 

The  night  creepeth  onward ; 

The  nightingale  singeth. 

To  himself  said  a watchman, 

“ Is  any  knight  waiting 

In  pain  for  his  lady, 

To  give  her  his  greeting  ? 

Now,  then,  for  their  meeting ! ” 

His  words  heard  a knight, 

In  the  garden  while  roaming : 

“Ah,  watchman!  ” he  said, 

“ Is  the  daylight  fast  coming  ? 

And  may  I not  see  her, 

And  wilt  not  thou  aid  me  ? ” 

“ Go,  wait  in  thy  covert, 

Lest  the  cock  crow  reveille, 

And  the  dawn  should  betray  thee.” 

Then  in  went  that  watchman, 

And  called  for  the  fair ; 

And  gently  he  roused  her  : 

“ Rise,  lady ! prepare ! 

New  tidings  I bring  thee, 

And  strange  to  thine  ear ; 

Come,  rouse  thee  up  quickly — 

Thy  knight  tarries  near ; 

Rise,  lady  ! appear ! ” 


232 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


“ Ah,  watchman ! though  purely 
The  moon  shines  above, 

Yet  trust  not  securely 
That  feigned  tale  of  love. 

Far,  far  from  my  presence 
My  own  knight  is  straying ; 

And,  sadly  repining, 

I mourn  his  long  staying, 

And  weep  his  delaying." 

“May,  lady ! yet  trust  me, 

Mo  falsehood  is  there.” 

Then  up  sprang  that  lady 
And  braided  her  hair, 

And  donned  her  white  garment, 

Her  purest  of  white ; 

And  her  heart  with  joy  trembling, 

She  rushed  to  the  sight 
Of  her  own  faithful  knight. 

Anonymous.  (German.) 

Translation  of  Edgab  Tayloe. 


LOVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 

All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 

And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o’er  again  that  happy  hour, 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o’er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 

The  statue  of  the  armed  night ; 

She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 

My  hope ! my  joy ! my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene’er  I sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


I played  a soft  and  doleful  air ; 

I sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 

An  old,  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 

For  well  she  knew  I could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a burning  brand ; 

And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I told  her  how  he  pined — and  ah ! 

The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I sang  another’s  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face ! 

But  when  I told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Mor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 

And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a fiend, 

This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 

He  leaped  amid  a murderous  band, 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death, 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain ; — 


What  My  Lover  Said. 

A Popibip*  Poem,  NovJ^Printed  Correctly  by  t 
Francisco  Argonaut. 

By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

In  the  orchard  path  he  met  me; 

In  the  tall,  wet  grass,  with  its  faint  perfume, 

And  I tried  to  pass,  but  he  made  no  room, 

Oh,  I tried,  but  he  would  not  let  me. 

So  I stood  and  blushed  till  the  grass  grew  red, 

With  my  face  bent  down  above  it. 

While  he  took  my  hand  as  he  whispering  said— 
it  ( Hoiv  the  clover  lifted  each  pink,  sweet  head. 

To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said ; 

Oh,  the  clover  in  bloom,  I love  it !)  * 

In  the  high,  wet  grass  went  the  path  to  hide. 

And  the  low,  wet  leaves  hung  over; 

But  I could  not  pass  upon  either  side, 

For  I found  myself,  when  I vainly  tried, 

In  the  arms  of  my  steadfast  lover. 

And  he  held  me  there  and  he  raised  my  head, 
While  he  closed  the  path  before  me, 

And  he  looked  down  into  my  eyes  and  said— 

(How  the  leaves  bent  down  from  the  boughs  o'erhead , 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said  ; 

Oh,  the  leaves  hanging  lowly  o'er  me!) 

Had  he  moved  aside  but  a little  way. 

I could  surely  then  have  passed  him : 

And  he  knew  I never  could  wish  to  stay, 

And  would  not  have  heard  what  he  had  to  say, 
Could  I only  aside  have  cast  him. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  the  moments  sped, 

And  the  searching  night  wind  found  us. 

But  he  drew  me  nearer  and  softly  said— 

( How  the  pure,  sweet  ivind  grew  still,  instead. 

To  listen  to  all  that  mu  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  whispering  wind  around  vis!) 

I am  sure  he  knew  when  he  held  me  fast. 

That  I must  be  all  unwilling; 

For  I tried  to  go.  and  I would  have  passed, 

As  the  night  was  come  with  its  dew,  at  last, 

And  the  sky  with  its  stars  was  filling. 

But  he  clasped  me  close  when  I would  have  fled, 
And  he  made  me  hear  his  story. 

And  his  soul  came  out  from  his  lips  and  said— 

( How  the  stars  crept  out  where  the  white  moon  led, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said  ; 

Oh,  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  glory  !) 

I know  that  the  grass  and  the  leaves  will  not  tell, 
And  I’m  sure  that  the  wind,  precious  rover, 

Will  carry  my  secret  so  safely  and  well 
That  no  being  shall  ever  discover 
One  word  of  the  many  that  rapidly  fell 
From  the  soul-speaking  lips  of  my  lover; 

And  the  moon  and  the  stars  that  looked  over 
Shall  never  reveal  what  a falry-llke  spell 
They  wove  round  about  us  that  night  in  the  dell. 

In  the  path  through  the  dew-laden  clover. 

Nor  echo  the  whispers  that  made  my  heart  swell 
As  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  lover. 

Homer  Greene. 


The  Modern  Learned  Malden. 

From  the  Courier-Journal. 

" Where  are  you  going,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 

“ To  Vassar  College,  sir,”  she  said. 

” Sir,”  she  said, 

“ Sir,”  she  said, 

" To  Vassar  College,  sir,”  she  said. 

“ May  I go  with  you,  my  pretty  maid  ?’* 

“ ’Tis  a female  college,  sir,”  she  said. 

“ How  may  one  enter,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 

“ Solely  by  intellect,  sir,”  she  said. 

'•  What  will  you  do  then,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 

“ Take  an  A.  B.  if  I can,”  she  said. 

” Then  won’t  you  marry  me,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 
“ Nay,  we’ll  be  bachelors,  sir,”  she  said. 

“ What  will  you  do  then,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 

“ I shall  be  Master  of  Arts,’’  she  Said. 

*'  Then  won’t  you  marry  me,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 
“You  would  be  master  of  me,”  she  said. 

“ What  will  you  do  then,  my  pretty  maid  ?” 

•'  Try  for  a Ph.  D.,  sir,”  she  said. 

“ Then  I won’t  marry  you,  my  pretty  maid.” 

“ Nobody  asked  you,  sir,”  she  said. 

“ Sir,”  she  said, 

“ Sir,”  she  said, 

'*  Nobody  asked  you,  sir,”  she  said. 


flnsense  talked  on  both  sides  To  a by 
del',  the  most  instructive  thing  of  ad  L.  tha. 

, are  two  sides.  Pi*-y  much  ^ 
si  »sed  that  when  the  Colonel  treed  his  mm 
concerning  the  G.  A.  R.  he  stood  alone i wrap 
in  the  solitude  of  his  own  original  ty,  ana  a 
loneliness  in  his  opinion  seems  to  be  a bit  of 
specialty  of  his.  his  at  titude  seemed  natural  and 
characteristic.  Natural,  I think  it  was.  Ee  has 
had  the  wit  to  perceive,  what  the  railroad  pe 
pie  have  so  thoroughly  found  out  how  muc. 
simpler  it  is  todeal  with  men  as  individuals  thai 
as  members  of  a guild  or  a class,  and  an  organ 
zationis  the  red  rag  that  brings  out  all  his 
taurine  qualities.  I agree  with  lnm  often  and 
delight  in  him  always.  I had  rather  watch  him 

run  amuck  than  see  other  men  keep  the  peace 

I don't  really  believe  that  this  time  he  set  on 
to  say  ail  he  has  said.  His  fiery  me^ico-mirf 
tary  interlocutor  went  off  at  half-cock  and 
didn’t  let  him  finish  his  sentence.  But  being  in, 
fie  has  let  himself  out  with  a vengeance.  O 
course  all  the  Grand  Army  has  rushed  into  pro 
nunciamento  against  him,  but  a surprising  num 

her  of  people  have  come  out  and  stood  by  hirn^ 

and  proclaim  that  he  is  voicing  tne  sentiment 
of  multitudes  whom  the  G A.  R.  makes  W 
tired,  hut  who  are  silent  carent  qma  vate | 
sacr0  ”—f0r  want  of  a spokesman. 

These  people  appear  to  be  mainly  taxpayer: 
who  know  we  are  paying  swindling  pensions,  and 
charge  this  result  to  the  Grand  Army  because  it 
was  the  greatest  and  most  ^sten'at,c 
of  pensions.  So  it  was;  but  they  Jntget  that  e 
Grand  Army  only  brought  the  grist  to  the  mill, 
it  did  not  do  the  sifting,  nor  pretend  to.  Ihe 
failure  was  in  the  miserable  wmnowmB  ma- 
chinery of  the  Government.  Part  of  the  tre- 
mendous nrice  we  pay  for  this  tyranny  of: parties 
which  we  call  a republic,  is  that  every  check  on 
a svsteun  of  depredation  proves  worthless  when 

^^^thi^as  it^ayfthe  fi^hM^n^^i^^fat^is 

-fiT'o  thf*  fur  is  flving.  Doubtless,  b.s  tn© 
hone  it  will  go  as  far  as  it  can  and  spread  as 

S as  it  will.  I have  an  American’s  hatred 
of  kll  underhand,  countermining  sullen,  smoul- 
dering Antagonisms  and  animosities,  and  I be- 
1 i e ve  thorough  1 y in  our  American  way  of  deal- 
• „ Tpith  them to  give  them  vent  and  let  there 

discussions  should  he  of  genuine  value. 

For  Sv  own  part,  though  not  a member  I am 

fv ^l^ubrd^Voung%U^a 


THE  OLD  STORY. 


23b 


And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a cave  ; 

And  how  his  madness  went  away, 

When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A dying  man  he  lay. 

His  dying  words-— but  when  I reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve ; 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 

The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishahle  throng, 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight — 

She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a dream, 

I heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved ; she  stepped  aside — 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 

Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 

She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms ; 

She  pressed  me  with  a meek  embrace ; 
And  bending  hack  her  head,  looked  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

’T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 

And  partly ’t  was  a bashful  art, 

That  I might  rather  feel,  than  see, 

The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 

And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 

And  so  I won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THE  OLD  STORY. 

He  came  across  the  meadow-pass, 

That  summer  eve  of  eves — 

The  sun-light  streamed  along  the  grass 
And  glanced  amid  the  leaves ; 

And  from  the  shrubbery  below, 

And  from  the  garden  trees, 

He  heard  the  thrushes’  music  flow 
And  humming  of  the  bees ; 

The  garden-gate  was  swung  apart — 

The  space  was  brief  between ; 

But  there,  for  throbbing  of  his  heart, 

He  paused  perforce  to  lean. 

He  leaned  upon  the  garden-gate ; 

He  looked,  and  scarce  he  breathed ; 
Within  the  little  porch  she  sate, 

With  woodbine  overwreathed ; 

Her  eyes  upon  her  work  were  bent, 
Unconscious  who  was  nigh ; 

But  oft  the  needle  slowly  went, 

And  oft  did  idle  lie  ; 

And  ever  to  her  lips  arose 
Sweet  fragments  sweetly  sung, 

But  ever,  ere  the  notes  could  close, 

She  hushed  them  on  her  tongue. 

Her  fancies  as  they  come  and  go, 

Her  pure  face  speaks  the  while ; 

For  now  it  is  a flitting  glow, 

And  now  a breaking  smile  ; 

And  now  it  is  a graver  shade, 

When  holier  thoughts  are  there — 

An  angel’s  pinion  might  he  stayed 
To  see  a sight  so  fair ; 

But  still  they  hid  her  looks  of  light, 

Those  downcast  eyelids  pale — 

Two  lovely  clouds,  so  silken  white, 

Two  lovelier  stars  that  veil. 

The  sun  at  length  his  burning  edge 
Had  rested  on  the  hill, 

And,  save  one  thrush  from  out  the  hedge. 
Both  bower  and  grove  were  still. 

The  sun  had  almost  bade  farewell ; 

But  one  reluctant  ray 
Still  loved  within  that  porch  to  dwell, 

As  charmed  there  to  stay — 


234 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


It  stole  aslant  the  pear-tree  bongh, 

And  through  the  woodbine  fringe, 
And  kissed  the  maiden’s  neck  and  brow, 
And  bathed  her  in  its  tinge. 

O,  beauty  of  my  heart ! he  said, 

O,  darling,  darling  mine ! 

Was  ever  light  of  evening  shed 
On  loveliness  like  thine  ? 

Why  should  I ever  leave  this  spot, 

But  gaze  until  I die  ? 

A moment  from  that  bursting  thought 
She  felt  his  footstep  nigh. 

One  sudden,  lifted  glance — but  one — 

A tremor  and  a start — 

So  gently  was  their  greeting  done 
That  who  would  guess  their  heart  ? 

Long,  long  the  sun  had  sunken  down, 
And  all  his  golden  hail 
Had  died  away  to  lines  of  brown, 

In  duskier  hues  that  fail. 

The  grasshopper  was  chirping  shrill — 
Ho  other  living  sound 
Accompanied  the  tiny  rill 
That  gurgled  under  ground — 

Ho  other  living  sound,  unless 
Some  spirit  bent  to  hear 
Low  words  of  human  tenderness 
And  mingling  whispers  near. 

The  stars,  like  pallid  gems  at  first, 

Deep  in  the  liquid  sky, 

How  forth  upon  the  darkness  burst, 

Sole  kings  and  lights  on  high ; 

For  splendor,  myriad-fold,  supreme, 

Ho  rival  moonlight  strove  ; 

Hor  lovelier  e’er  was  Hesper’s  beam, 

Hor  more  majestic  Jove. 

But  what  if  hearts  there  beat  that  night 
That  recked  not  of  the  skies, 

Or  only  felt  their  imaged  light 
In  one  another’s  eyes? 

And  if  two  worlds  of  hidden  thought 
And  longing  passion  met, 

Which,  passing  human  language,  sought 
And  found  an  utterance  yet ; 

And  if  they  trembled  as  the  flowers 
That  droop  across  the  stream, 

And  muse  the  while  the  starry  hours 
Wait  o’er  them  like  a dream ; 


And  if,  when  came  the  parting  time, 
They  faltered  still  and  clung ; 

What  is  it  all  ? — an  ancient  rhyme 
Ten  thousand  times  besung — 

That  part  of  Paradise  which  man 
Without  the  portal  knows — 

Which  hath  been  since  the  world  began. 
And  shall  be  till  its  close. 

Anonymous. 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAH. 

“Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladye — 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 

I ’ll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  shall  be  his  bride  ; 

And  ye  shall  be  his  bride,  ladye, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen.” — 

But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa’ 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

“How  let  this  wilful  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale ; 

Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley  dale : 

His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha’, 

His  sword  in  battle  keen.” — 

But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa’ 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

“ A chain  of  gold  ye  shall  not  lack, 

Hor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 

Hor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 
Hor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair  ; 

And  you  the  foremost  of  them  a’ 

Shall  ride,  our  forest  queen.” — 

But  ay  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa’ 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  w'as  decked  at  morning  tide ; 

The  tapers  glimmered  fair ; 

The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 
And  knight  and  dame  are  there  : 

They  sought  her  both  by  bower  and  ha’ ; 

The  ladye  was  not  seen.— 

She ’s  o’er  the  border,  and  awa’ 

Wi’  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sib  Waltke  Scott. 


j 


L 0 CHIN  V AR. 


235 


LOCJHINVAE. 

0,  yotjng  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the 
west; 

Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was 
the  best ; 

And  save  his  good  broad-sword  he  weapons 
had  none ; 

He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 

So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Loch- 
invar. 

He  staid  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not 
for  stone ; 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there 
was  none ; 

But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came 
late : 

For  a laggard  in  love,  and  a dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochin- 
var. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

’Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  broth- 
ers, and  all ; 

Then  spoke  the  bride’s  father,  his  hand  on 
his  sword, 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never 
a word,) 

“O  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in 
war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochin- 
var ? ” 

“ I long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you 
denied — 

Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its 
tide — 

And  now  I am  come,  with  this  lost  love  of 
mine, 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of 
wine; 

There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely 
by  far, 

That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young 
Lochinvar.” 


The  bride  kissed  the  goblet — the  knight  took 
it  up ; 

He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down 
the  cup. 

She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up 
to  sigh, 

With  a smile  on  her  lips,  and  a tear  in  her 
eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could 
bar, — 

“ Now  tread  we  a measure ! ” said  young 
Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a hall  such  a galliard  did  grace  ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret  and  her  father  did 
fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bon- 
net and  plume ; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  “Twere 
better  by  far 

To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young 
Lochinvar.” 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her 
ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the 
charger  stood  near ; 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

“ She  is  won ! we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush, 
and  scaur ; 

They’ll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,”  quoth 
young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  ’mong  Graemes  of  the 
Netherby  clan ; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode 
and  they  ran : 

There  was  racing,  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie 
Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne’er  did  they 
see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e’er  heard  of  gallant  like  young 
Lochinvar  ? 

Sib  Walter  Scott. 


236 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


LOVE  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

Under  yonder  beech-tree  standing  on  the 
green  sward, 

Couched  with  her  arms  behind  her  little  head, 

Her  knees  folded  up,  and  her  tresses  on  her 
bosom, 

Lies  my  young  love  sleeping  in  the  shade. 

Had  I the  heart  to  slide  one  arm  beneath  her! 

Press  her  dreaming  lips  as  her  waist  I folded 
slow, 

Waking  on  the  instant  she  could  not  but  em- 
brace me — 

Ah ! would  she  hold  me,  and  never  let  me  go  ? 

Shy  as  the  squirrel,  and  wayward  as  the 
swallow ; 

Swift  as  the  swallow  when  athwart  the  west- 
ern flood 

Circleting  the  surface  he  meets  his  mirrored 
winglets — 

Is  that  dear  one  in  her  maiden  bud. 

Shy  as  the  squirrel  whose  nest  is  in  the  pine 
tops; 

Gentle — ah!  that  she  were  jealous — as  the 
dove ! 

Full  of  all  the  wildness  of  the  woodland  crea- 
tures, 

Happy  in  herself  is  the  maiden  that  I love ! 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  I tell 
her? 

Can  she  truly  doubt  me  when  looking  on  my 
brows  ? 

Nature  never  teaches  distrust  of  tender  love- 
tales — 

What  can  have  taught  her  distrust  of  all  my 
vows? 

No,  she  does  not  doubt  me ! on  a dewy  eve- 
tide 

Whispering  together  beneath  the  listening 
moon, 

I prayed  till  her  cheek  flushed,  implored  till 
she  faltered — 

Fluttered  to  my  bosom — ah ! to  fly  away  so 
soon! 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  laugh- 
ing mirror, 

Tying  up  her  laces,  looping  up  her  hair, 


Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing 
wedded, 

I should  have  more  love,  and  much  less  care. 

When  her  mother  tends  her  before  the  bash- 
ful mirror, 

Loosening  her  laces,  combing  down  her  curls, 

Often  she  thinks — were  this  wild  thing 
wedded, 

I should  lose  but  one  for  so  many  boys  and 
girls. 

Clambering  roses  peep  into  her  chamber ; 

Jasmine  and  woodbine  breathe  sweet,  sweet, 

White-necked  swallows,  twittering  of  sum- 
mer, 

Fill  her  with  balm  and  nested  peace  from 
head  to  feet. 

Ah ! will  the  rose-bough  see  her  lying  lonely, 

When  the  petals  fall  and  fierce  bloom  is  on 
the  leaves  ? 

Will  the  Autumn  garners  see  her  still  un- 
gathered, 

When  the  fickle  swallows  forsake  the  weep- 
ing eaves  ? 

Comes  a sudden  question — should  a strange 
hand  pluck  her ! 

0 ! what  an  anguish  smites  me  at  the  thought! 

Should  some  idle  lordling  bribe  her  mind  with 
jewels ! — 

Can  such  beauty  ever  thus  be  bought  ? 

Sometimes  the  huntsmen  prancing  down  the 
valley 

Eye  the  village  lasses,  full  of  sprightly  mirth ; 

They  see,  as  I see,  mine  is  the  fairest ! 

Would  she  were  older  and  could  read  my 
worth ! 

Are  there  not  sweet  maidens,  if  she  still  deny 
me? 

Show  the  bridal  heavens  but  one  bright  star  ? 

Wherefore  thus  then  do  I chase  a shadow, 

Clattering  one  note  like  a brown  eve-jar  ? 

So  I rhyme  and  reason  till  she  darts  before 
me — 

Through  the  milky  meadows  from  flower  to 
flower  she  flies, 

Sunning  her  sweet  palms  to  shade  her  dazzled 
eyelids 

From  the  golden  love  that  looks  too  eager  in 
her  eyes. 


LADY  CLARE. 


237 


When  at  dawn  she  wakens,  and  her  fair  face 
gazes 

Out  on  the  weather  through  the  window 
panes, 

Beauteous  she  looks ! like  a white  water-lily 

Bursting  out  of  hud  on  the  rippled  river 
plains. 

When  from  bed  she  rises  clothed  from  neck 
to  ankle 

In  her  long  night  gown,  sweet  as  boughs  of 
May, 

Beauteous  she  looks ! like  a tall  garden  lily 

Pure  from  the  night  and  perfect  for  the  day ! 

Happy,  happy  time,  when  the  gray  star  twin- 
kles 

Over  the  fields  all  fresh  with  bloomy  dew ; 

When  the  cold-cheeked  Dawn  grows  ruddy 
up  the  twilight, 

And  the  gold  Sun  wakes  and  weds  her  in  the 
blue. 

Then  when  my  darling  tempts  the  early 
breezes, 

She  the  only  star  that  dies  not  with  the  dark ! 

Powerless  to  speak  all  the  ardor  of  my  pas- 
sion, 

I catch  her  little  hand  as  we  listen  to  the 
lark. 

Shall  the  birds  in  vain  then  valentine  their 
sweethearts  ? 

Season  after  season  tell  a fruitless  tale  ? 

Will  not  the  virgin  listen  to  their  voices  ? 

Take  the  honeyed  meaning,  wear  the  bridal 
veil? 

Fears  she  frosts  of  winter,  fears  she  the  bare 
branches  ? 

Waits  she  the  garlands  of  Spring  for  her 
dower  ? 

Is  she  a nightingale  that  will  not  be  nested 

Till  the  April  woodland  has  built  her  bridal 
bower  ? 

Then  come,  merry  April,  with  all  thy  birds 
and  beauties ! 

With  thy  crescent  brows  and  thy  flowery, 
showery  glee ; 

With  thy  budding  leafage  and  fresh  green 
pastures ; 

And  may  thy  lustrous  crescent  grow  a hon- 
eymoon for  me ! 


Come,  merry  month  of  the  cuckoo  and  the 
violet ! 

Come,  weeping  Loveliness  in  all  thy  blue 
delight ! 

Lo!  the  nest  is  ready,  let  me  not  languish 
longer ! 

Bring  her  to  my  arms  on  the  first  May  night. 

George  Meredith. 


LADY  CLARE. 

Lord  Ronald  courted  Lady  Clare, 

I trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn ; 

Lord  Ronald,  her  cousin,  courted  her, 

And  they  will  wed  the  morrow  morn. 

“He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 

And  that  is  well,”  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  “ Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee  ? ” 
“ It  was  my  cousin,”  said  Lady  Clare, 

“ To-morrow  he  weds  with  me.” 

“ O God  be  thanked ! ” said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“ That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair : 
Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 

And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my 
nurse  ? ” 

Said  Lady  Clare,  “ that  ye  speak  so  wild  ? ” 
“As  God’s  above,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

“ I speak  the  truth : you  are  my  child. 

“The  old  Earl’s  daughter  died  at  my  breast; 

I speak  the  truth  as  I live  by  bread ! 

I buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead.” 

“Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0 mother,”  she  said,  “if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due.” 

“Nay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 

And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Ronald’s, 
When  you  are  man  and  wife.” 


238 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


“If  I’m  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“ I will  speak  out,  for  I dare  not  lie. 

Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 

And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by.” 

“Hay  now,  my  child,”  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“ But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can.” 

She  said  “Hot  so ; but  I will  know 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man.” 

“Hay  now,  what  faith ? ” said  Alice  the  nurse, 
“The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right.” 

“And  he  shall  have  it,”  the  lady  replied, 

“ Though  I should  die  to-night.” 

“ Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear ! 
Alas,  my  child,  I sinned  for  thee.” 

“ 0 mother,  mother,  mother ! ” she  said, 

“ So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

“ Yet  here’s  a kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so ; 

And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I go.” 

She  clad  herself  in  a russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare ; 

She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down 
With  a single  rose  in  her  hair. 

A lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 
Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 

Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden’s  hand, 

And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower : 

“ O Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a village  maid, 

That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? ” 

“ If  I come  drest  like  a village  maid, 

I am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 

I am  a beggar  born,”  she  said, 

“And  not  the  Lady  Clare.” 

“Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 

“ For  I am  yours  in  word  and  deed ; 

Play  me  no  tricks,”  said  Lord  Ronald, 

Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read.” 


O and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail ; 

She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald’s  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse’s  tale. 

He  laughed  a laugh  of  merry  scorn ; 

He  turned  and  kissed  her  where  she  stood : 
“ If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “the  next  in  blood — 

“ If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,”  said  he,  “the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 

And  yon  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.” 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


DORA. 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 
William  and  Dora.  William  was  his  son, 
And  she  his  niece.  He  often  looked  at  them, 
And  often  thought,  “I’ll  make  them  man 
and  wife.” 

How  Dora  felt  her  uncle’s  will  in  all, 

And  yearned  towards  William;  but  the  youth, 
because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 
Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a day 
When  Allan  called  his  son,  and  said,  “My 
son : 

I married  late,  but  I would  wish  to  see 
My  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I die  ; 
And  I have  set  my  heart  upon  a match. 

How  therefore  look  to  Dora ; she  is  well 
To  look  to  ; thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 

She  is  my  brother’s  daughter  ; he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he 
died 

In  foreign  lands ; but  for  his  sake  I bred 
His  daughter  Dora ; take  her  for  your  wife ; 
For  I have  wished  this  marriage,  night  and 
day, 

For  many  years.”  But  William  answered 
short : 

“ I cannot  marry  Dora ; by  my  life, 

I will  not  marry  Dora.”  Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and 
said: 


DORA. 


239 


“You  will  not,  boy!  you  dare  to  answer 
thus ! 

But  in  my  time  a father’s  word  was  law, 

And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.  Look  to ’t ; 
Consider,  William  : take  a month  to  think, 
And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish ; 

Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall  pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again ! ” 
But  William  answered  madly ; bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.  The  more  he  looked  at 
her 

The  less  he  liked  her;  and  his  ways  were 
harsh ; 

But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.  Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father’s  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields ; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  wooed  and 
wed 

A laborer’s  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan 
called 

His  niece  and  said:  “My  girl,  I love  you 
well ; 

But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son, 
Or  change  a word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.  My  will  is  law.” 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.  She 
thought, 

“It  cannot  be ; my  uncle’s  mind  will  change ! ” 
And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a 
boy 

To  William ; then  distresses  came  on  him ; 
And  day  by  day  he  passed  his  father’s  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  helped  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they 
know 

Who  sent  it ; till  at  last  a fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.  Mary  sat 
And  looked  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and 
thought 

Hard  things  of  Dora.  Dora  came  and  said : 
“I  have  obeyed  my  uncle  until  now, 

And  I have  sinned,  for  it  was  all  through  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that ’s  gone, 
And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 
And  for  this  orphan,  I am  come  to  you. 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five 
years 


So  full  a harvest ; let  me  take  the  boy, 

And  I will  set  him  in  my  uncle’s  eye 
Among  the  wheat ; that  when  his  heart  is 
glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that’s 
gone.” 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not ; for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child ; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  failed  her;  and  the  reapers 
reaped, 

And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 
But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and 
took 

The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  mound; 
And  made  a little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle’s  eye. 
Then  when  the  farmer  passed  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work, 
And  came  and  said,  “ Where  were  you  yes- 
terday ? 

Whose  child  is  that  ? What  are  you  doing 
here  ? ” 

So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground, 

And  answered  softly,  “This  is  William’s 
child!” 

“And  did  I not,”  said  Allan,  “ did  I not 
Forbid  you,  Dora? ” Dora  said  again : 

“Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child 
And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that’s 
gone ! ” 

And  Allan  said,  “I  see  it  is  a trick 
Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 

I must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you 
dared 

To  slight  it.  Well — for  I will  take  the  boy; 
But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more.” 
So  saying,  he  took  the  boy,  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.  The  wreath  of  flowers 
fell 

At  Dora’s  feet.  She  bowed  upon  her  hands, 
And  the  boy’s  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field, 
More  and  more  distant.  She  bowed  down 
her  head, 


240 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.  She  bowed 
down 

And  wept  in  secret ; and  the  reapers  reaped, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary’s  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.  Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.  She  broke  out  in  praise 
To 'God,  that  helped  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  “ My  uncle  took  the  boy ; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you  ; 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more.” 
Then  answered  Mary,  “ This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thy- 
self ; 

And,  now  I think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy, 
For  he  will  teach  him  harshness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother ; therefore  thou  and  I will  go, 
And  I will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home ; 
And  I will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back ; 

But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again, 

Then  thou  and  I will  live  within  one  house, 
And  work  for  William’s  child  until  he  grows 
Of  age  to  help  us.” 

So  the  women  kissed 

Each  other,  and  set  out  and  reached  the  farm. 
The  door  was  off  the  latch ; they  peeped  and 
saw 

The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire’s  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the 
cheeks, 

Like  one  that  loved  him ; and  the  lad  stretched 
out 

And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan’s  watch  and  sparkled  by  the 
fire. 

Then  they  came  in ; but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her ; 
And  Allan  sat  him  down,  and  Mary  said : 

“ O father ! — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 

I never  came  a-begging  for  myself, 

Or  William,  or  this  child  ; but  now  I come 
For  Dora : take  her  back ; she  loves  you  well. 
O,  sir,  when  William  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men  ; for  I asked  him,  and  he  said, 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me. — 

I had  been  a patient  wife : but,  sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus ; 

4 God  bless  him ! ’ he  said,  ‘ and  may  he  never 
know 


The  troubles  I have  gone  through ! ’ Then 
he  turned 

His  face  and  passed — unhappy  that  I am ! 

But  now,  sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to 
slight 

His  father’s  memory;  and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before.” 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.  There  was  silence  in  the  room ; 
And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs : — 
“ I have  been  to  blame — to  blame ! I have 
killed  my  son ! 

I have  killed  him — but  I loved  him — my  dear 
son! 

May  God  forgive  me ! — I have  been  to  blame. 
Kiss  me,  my  children ! ” 

Then  they  clung  about 
The  old  man’s  neck,  and  kissed  him  many 
times. 

And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse ; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a hundred-fold ; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobbed  o’er  William’s 
child, 

Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together ; and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate ; 

But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 

Alfred  Tenntson. 


THE  LETTERS. 

i. 

Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane , 

A black  yew  gloomed  the  stagnant  air ; 

I peered  athwart  the  chancel  pane 
And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 

A clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 

A band  of  pain  across  my  brow ; 

“Cold  altar,  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 
Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow.” 

ii. 

I turned  and  hummed  a bitter  song 
That  mocked  the  wholesome  human  heart ; 

And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 


SONNETS. 


241 


Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved ; 

I saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 
She  wore  the  colors  I approved. 

in. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest — 

With  half  a sigh  she  turned  the  key ; 

Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 
And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 

And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could  please ; 

As  looks  a father  on  the  things 
Of  his  dead  son,  I looked  on  these. 

IV. 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said ; 

I raged  against  the  public  liar. 

She  talked  as  if  her  love  were  dead ; 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 

“No  more  of  love ; your  sex  is  known : 

I never  will  be  twice  deceived. 

Henceforth  I trust  the  man  alone — 

The  woman  cannot  he  believed. 

v. 

“ Through  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  hell 
(And  woman’s  slander  is  the  worst), 

And  you,  whom  once  I loved  so  well — 
Through  you  my  life  will  be  accurst.” 

I spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 

I shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms — 

Like  torrents  from  a mountain  source 
We  rushed  into  each  other’s  arms. 

VI. 

We  parted.  Sweetly  gleamed  the  stars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue ; 

Low  breezes  fanned  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I drew. 

The  very  graves  appeared  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadowed  swells ; 

“Dark  porch,”  I said,  “and  silent  aisle, 
There  comes  a sound  of  marriage  bells.” 
Alfred  Tennyson. 


SONNETS. 

When  I do  count  the  clock  that  tells  the 
time, 

And  see  the  brave  day  sunk  in  hideous 
night ; 

When  I behold  the  violet  past  prime, 

And  sable  curls  all  silvered  o’er  with  white ; 

When  lofty  trees  I see  barren  of  leaves ; 

Which  erst  from  heat  did  canopy  the  herd, 

And  Summer’s  green  all  girded  up  in  sheaves, 

Borne  on  the  bier  with  white  and  bristly 
beard ; 

Then,  of  thy  beauty  do  I question  make, 

That  thou  among  the  wastes  of  time  must  go, 

Since  sweets  and  beauties  do  themselves  for- 
sake, 

And  die  as  fast  as  they  see  others  grow ; 

And  nothing  ’gainst  Time’s  scythe  can 
make  defence, 

Save  breed,  to  brave  him,  when  he  takes 
thee  hence. 


Shall  I compare  thee  to  a summer’s  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate ; 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of 
May, 

And  summer’s  lease  hath  all  too  short  a date, 
Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 
And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimmed, 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By  chance,  or  nature’s  changing  course,  un- 
trimmed ; 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade, 

Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shftll  death  brag  thou  wander’st  in  his 
shade, 

When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest. 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can 
see, 

So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to 
thee. 


So  is  it  not  with  me  as  with  that  Muse, 
Stirred  by  a painted  beauty  to  his  verse  ; 
Who  Heaven  itself  for  ornament  doth  use, 
And  every  fair  with  his  fair  doth  rehearse ; 


16 


242 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


Making  a compliment  of  proud  compare, 
With  Sun  and  Moon,  with  earth  and  sea’s 
rich  gems, 

With  April’s  first-horn  flowers,  and  all  things 
rare 

That  Heaven’s  air  in  this  huge  rondure  hems. 
O let  me,  true  in  love,  but  truly  write, 

And  then  believe  me,  my  love  is  as  fair 
As  any  mother’s  child,  though  not  so  bright 
As  those  gold  candles  fixed  in  Heaven’s  air : 
Let  them  say  more  that  like  of  hearsay 
well ; 

I will  not  praise,  that  purpose  not  to  sell. 


Let  those  who  are  in  favor  with  their  stars, 
Of  public  honor  and  proud  titles  boast ; 
Whilst  I,  whom  Fortune  of  such  triumph 
bars, 

Unlooked  for  joy  in  that  I honor  most. 

Great  princes’  favorites  their  fair  leaves 
spread, 

But  as  the  marigold,  at  the  Sun’s  eye ; 

And  in  themselves  their  pride  lies  buried, 
For  at  a frown  they  in  their  glory  die. 

The  painful  warrior  famoused  for  fight, 

After  a thousand  victories  once  foiled, 

Is  from  the  book  of  honor  rased  quite, 

And  all  the  rest  forgot  for  which  he  toiled. 
Then  happy  I,  that  love  and  am  beloved, 
Where  I may  not  remove  nor  be  removed. 


When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men’s 
eyes, 

I all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless 
cries, 

And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  pos- 
sessed, 

Desiring  this  man’s  art,  and  that  man’s  scope, 
With  what  I most  enjoy  contented  least ; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  de- 
spising, 

Haply  I think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state 
(Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven’s 
gate. 


For  thy  sweet  love  remembered  such  wealth 
brings, 

That  then  I scorn  to  change  my  state  with 
kings. 


When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I sigh  the  lack  of  many  a thing  I sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time’s 
waste. 

Then,  can  I drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death’s  dateless 
night, 

And  weep  afresh  love’s  long  since  cancelled 
woe, 

And  moan  th’  expense  of  many  a vanished 
sight. 

Then,  can  I grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o’er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I new  pay,  as  if  not  paid  before  ; 

But  if  the  while  I think  on  thee,  dear 
friend, 

All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 


Thy  bosom  is  endeared  with  all  hearts, 
Which  I by  lacking  have  supposed  dead ; 
And  there  reigns  Love,  and  all  love’s  loving 
parts, 

And  all  those  friends  which  I thought  buried. 
How  many  a holy  and  obsequious  tear 
Hath  dear  religious  love  stol’n  from  mine  eye, 
As  interest  of  the  dead,  which  now  appear 
But  things  removed,  that  hidden  in  thee  lie ! 
Thou  art  the  grave  where  buried  Love  doth 
live, 

Hung  with  the  trophies  of  my  lovers  gone, 
Who  all  their  parts  of  me  to  thee  did  give ; 
That  due  of  many  now  is  thine  alone : 

Their  images  I loved  I view  in  thee, 

And  thou  (all  they)  hast  all  the  all  of  me. 


Full  many  a glorious  morning  have  I seen 
Flatter  the  mountain  tops  with  sovereign  eye, 
Kissing  with  golden  face  the  meadows  green, 
Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchymy 


SONNETS. 


Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  rack  on  his  celestial  face, 

And  from  the  forlorn  world  his  visage  hide, 
Stealing  unseen  to  west  with  this  disgrace. 
Even  so  my  sun  one  early  morn  did  shine, 
With  all  triumphant  splendor  on  my  brow  ; 
But  out,  alack ! he  was  hut  one  hour  mine, 
The  region  cloud  hath  masked  him  from  me 
now, 

Yet  him  for  this  my  love  no  whit  disdain- 
eth; 

Suns  of  the  world  may  stain,  when  heaven’s 
sun  staineth. 


Why  didst  thou  promise  such  a beauteous 
day, 

And  make  me  travel  forth  without  my  cloak, 
To  let  base  clouds  o’ertake  me  in  my  way, 
Hiding  thy  bravery  in  their  rotten  smoke  ? 
’Tis  not  enough  that  through  the  cloud  thou 
break, 

To  dry  the  rain  on  my  storm-beaten  face, 

For  no  man  well  of  such  a salve  can  speak, 
That  heals  the  wound,  and  cures  not  the  dis- 
grace ; 

Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief — 
Though  thou  repent,  yet  I have  still  the  loss. 
Th’  offender’s  sorrow  lends  hut  weak  relief 
To  him  that  hears  the  strong  offence’s  cross. 

Ah ! hut  those  tears  are  pearl,  which  thy 
love  sheds, 

And  they  are  rich,  and  ransom  all  ill  deeds. 


Those  pretty  wrongs  that  liberty  commits, 
When  I am  sometime  absent  from  thy  heart, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  years  full  well  befits  ; 
For  still  temptation  follows  where  thou  art. 
Gentle  thou  art,  and  therefore  to  be  won ; 
Beauteous  thou  art,  therefore  to  be  assailed ; 
And  when  a woman  woos,  what  woman’s  son 
Will  sourly  leave  her  till  she  have  prevailed? 
Ah  me ! hut  yet  thou  might’st  my  seat  for- 
bear, 

And  chide  thy  Beauty  and  thy  straying  Youth, 
Who  lead  thee  in  their  riot  even  there 
Where  thou  art  forced  to  break  a two-fold 
truth ; 


243 

Hers,  by  thy  beauty  tempting  her  to  thee, 
Thine,  by  thy  beauty  being  false  to  me. 


What  is  your  substance,  whereof  are  you 
made, 

That  millions  of  strange  shadows  on  you 
tend? 

Since  every  one  hath,  every  one,  one  shade, 
And  you,  but  one,  can  every  shadow  lend. 
Describe  Adonis,  and  the  counterfeit 
Is  poorly  imitated  after  you; 

On  Helen’s  cheek  all  art  of  beauty  set, 

And  you  in  Grecian  tires  are  painted  new ; 
Speak  of  the  Spring,  and  foison  of  the  year — 
The  one  doth  shadow  of  your  beauty  show, 
The  other  as  your  bounty  doth  appear ; 

And  you  in  every  blessed  shape  we  know. 

In  all  external  grace  you  have  some  part ; 
But  you  like  none,  none  you,  for  constant 
heart. 


0,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous 
seem, 

By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth 
give ! 

The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odor  which  doth  in  it  live. 
The  canker-blooms  have  full  as  deep  a dye 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses — 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly 
When  Summer’s  breath  their  masked  buds 
discloses ; 

But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show ; 

They  live  unwooed,  and  unrespected  fade — 
Die  to  themselves.  Sweet  roses  do  not  so ; 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odors 
made: 

And  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth, 
When  that  shall  fade,  my  verse  distils  your 
truth. 


Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  out-live  this  powerful  rhyme ; 
But  you  shall  shine  more  bright  in  these  con- 
tents 

Than  unswept  stone,  besmeared  with  sluttish 
time. 


244 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


When  wasteful  war  shall  statues  overturn, 
And  broils  root  out  the  work  of  masonry, 
Nor  Mars  his  sword,  nor  War’s  quick  fire 
shall  burn 

The  living  record  of  your  memory. 

’Gainst  death  and  all  oblivious  enmity 
Shall  you  pace  forth : your  praise  shall  still 
find  room 

Even  in  the  eyes  of  all  posterity, 

That  wear  this  world  out  to  the  ending  doom. 
So,  till  the  judgment  that  yourself  arise, 
You  live  in  this,  and  dwell  in  lovers’  eyes. 


That  thou  art  blamed  shall  not  be  thy  defect, 
For  slander’s  mark  was  ever  yet  the  fair ; 
The  ornament  of  beauty  is  suspect, 

A crow  that  flies  in  heaven’s  sweetest  air. 

So  thou  be  good,  slander  doth  but  approve 
Thy  worth  the  greater,  being  wooed  of  time ; 
For  canker  vice  the  sweetest  buds  doth  love, 
And  thou  present’st  a pure  unstained  prime. 
Thou  hast  past  by  the  ambush  of  young  days, 
Either  not  assailed,  or  victor  being  charged ; 
Yet  this  thy  praise  cannot  be  so  thy  praise, 
To  tie  up  envy,  evermore  enlarged. 

If  some  suspect  of  ill  masked  not  thy  show, 
Then,  thou  alone  kingdoms  of  hearts 
shouldst  owe. 


So  are  you  to  my  thoughts,  as  food  to  life, 

Or  as  sweet-seasoned  showers  are  to  the 
ground ; 

And  for  the  peace  of  you  I hold  such  strife 
As  ’twixt  a miser  and  his  wealth  is  found : 
Now  proud  as  an  enjoyer,  and  anon 
Doubting  the  filching  age  will  steal  his  trea- 
sure ; 

Now  counting  best  to  be  with  you  alone, 
Then  bettered  that  the  world  may  see  my 
pleasure ; 

Sometime  all  full  with  feasting  on  your  sight, 
And  by  and  by  clean  starved  for  a look ; 
Possessing  or  pursuing  no  delight, 

Save  what  is  had  or  must  from  you  be  took. 
Thus  do  I pine  and  surfeit  day  by  day ; 

Or  gluttoning  on  all,  or  all  away. 


Fake  well  ! thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possess- 
ing, 

And  like  enough  thou  know’st  thy  estimate ; 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 

For  how  do  I hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 
Thyself  thou  gav’st,  thy  own  worth  then  not 
knowing, 

Or  me,  to  whom  gav’st  it,  else  mistaking ; 

So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  mak- 
ing. 

Thus  have  I had  thee,  as  a dream  doth 
flatter, 

In  sleep  a king ; but  waking,  no  such  matter. 

Some  say  thy  fault  is  youth,  some  wantonness ; 
Some  say  thy  grace  is  youth,  and  gentle  sport; 
Both  grace  and  faults  are  loved  of  more  and 
less: 

Thou  mak’st  faults  graces  that  to  thee  resort. 
As  on  the  finger  of  a throned  queen 
The  basest  jewel  will  be  well  esteemed, 

So  are  those  errors  that  in  thee  are  seen 
To  truths  translated,  and  for  true  things 
deemed. 

How  many  lambs  might  the  stern  wolf  betray, 
If  like  a lamb  he  could  his  looks  translate ! 
How  many  gazers  might’st  thou  lead  away. 
If  thou  wouldst  use  the  strength  of  all  thy 
state ! 

But  do  not  so ; I love  thee  in  such  sort 
As  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  re- 
port. 

How  like  a Winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year ! 
What  freezings  have  I felt,  what  dark  days 
seen, 

What  old  December’s  bareness  every  where ! 
And  yet  this  time  removed  was  Summer’s 
time ; 

The  teeming  Autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime, 
Like  widowed  wombs  after  their  lords’  de- 


cease. 


SONNETS. 


Yet  this  abundant  issue  seemed  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans,  and  unfathered  fruit ; 
For  Summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute ; 
Or,  if  they  sing,  ’tis  with  so  dull  a cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  win- 
ter’s near. 


Fkom  you  nave  I been  absent  in  the  Spring, 
When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in  all  his 
trim, 

Hath  put  a spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with 
him. 

Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue, 

Could  make  me  any  Summer’s  story  tell, 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where 
they  grew ; 

Nor  did  I wonder  at  the  lily’s  white, 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose ; 
They  were  hut  sweet,  hut  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you — you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seemed  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I with  these  did  play. 


The  forward  violet  thus  did  I chide : — 
Sweet  thief,  whence  didst  thou  steal  thy 
sweet  that  smells, 

If  not  from  my  love’s  breath?  the  purple 
pride 

Which  on  thy  soft  cheek  for  complexion 
dwells, 

In  my  love’s  veins  thou  hast  too  grossly  dyed. 
The  lily  I condemned  for  thy  hand, 

And  buds  of  marjoram  had  stol’n  thy  hair ; 
The  roses  fearfully  on  thorns  did  stand, 

One  blushing  shame,  another  white  despair ; 
A third,  nor  red  nor  white,  had  stolen  of  both, 
And  to  this  robbery  had  annexed  thy  breath ; 
But  for  his  theft,  in  pride  of  all  his  growth 
A vengeful  canker  eat  him  up  to  death. 

More  flowers  I noted,  yet  I none  could  see, 
But  sweet  in  color  it  had  stolen  from  thee. 


When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 


245 

And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme, 

In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights, 
Then,  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty’s  best, 

Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 

I see  their  antique  pen  would  have  expressed 
Even  such,  a beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all  you  prefiguring ; 

And  for  they  looked  hut  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  your  worth  to  sing; 
For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present 
days, 

Have  eyes  to  wonder,  hut  lack  tongues  to 
praise. 


Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world,  dreaming  on  things  to 
come, 

Can  yet  the  lease  of  my  true  love  control, 
Supposed  as  forfeit  to  a confined  doom. 

The  mortal  moon  hath  her  eclipse  endured, 
And  the  sad  augurs  mock  their  own  presage ; 
Incertainties  now  crown  themselves  assured, 
And  peace  proclaims  olives  of  endless  age. 
Now,  with  the  drops  of  this  most  balmy  time 
My  love  looks  fresh,  and  death  to  me  sub- 
scribes, 

Since,  spite  of  him,  I ’ll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme, 
While  he  insults  o’er  dull  and  speechless 
tribes : 

And  thou  in  this  shalt  find  thy  monument, 
When  tyrants’  crests,  and  tombs  of  brass 
are  spent. 


Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments  : love  is  not  love, 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove. 

O no ! it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  hark, 
Whose  worth ’s  unknown,  although  his  height 
be  taken. 

Love’s  not  Time’s  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and 
cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle’s  compass  come; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 


246 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


If  this  he  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 
I never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


0 ! never  say  that  I was  false  of  heart, 
Thongh  absence  seemed  my  flame  to  qualify. 
As  easy  might  I from  myself  depart, 

As  from  my  sonl,  which  in  thy  breast  doth 
lie. 

That  is  my  home  of  love ; if  I have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I return  again — 

Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchanged; 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reigned 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stained, 

To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good ; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I call, 

Save  thou,  my  Rose ; in  it  thou  art  my  all. 


SONNETS. 

Come  Sleep,  O Sleep!  the  certain  knot  of 
peace, 

The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe ; 

The  poor  man’s  wealth,  the  prisoner’s  release, 

Th’  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and 
low! 

With  shield  of  proof,  shield  me  from  out  the 
prease 

Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  doth  at  me 
throw. 

0 make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease ; 

1 will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest 
bed, 

A chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 

A rosy  garland  and  a weary  head ; 

And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 

Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella’s  image  see. 


In  martial  sports  I had  my  cunning  tried, 
And  yet  to  break  more  staves  did  me  address ; 
While  with  the  people’s  shouts,  I must  confess, 
Youth,  luck,  and  praise  e’en  filled  my  veins 
with  pride ; 


When  Cupid  having  me,  his  slave,  descried 

In  Mars’s  livery,  prancing  in  the  press, 

“ What  now,  Sir  Fool  ? ” said  he,  “ I would 
no  less ; 

Look  here  I say.” — I looked,  and  Stella  spied, 

Who,  hard  by,  made  a window  send  forth 
light; 

My  heart  then  quaked ; then  dazzled  were 
mine  eyes ; 

One  hand  forgot  to  rule,  the  other  to  fight ; 

Nor  trumpet’s  sound  I heard,  nor  friendly 
cries. 

My  foe  came  on  and  beat  the  air  for  me, 

Till  that  her  blush  taught  me  my  shame  to 
see. 


0 happy  Thames,  that  didst  my  Stella  bear ! 

1 saw  myself,  with  many  a smiling  line 
Upon  thy  cheerful  face,  joy’s  livery  wear, 
While  those  fair  planets  on  thy  streams  did 

shine ; 

The  boat  for  joy  could  not  to  dance  forbear ; 
While  wanton  winds,  with  beauties  so  divine 
Ravished,  staid  not  till  in  her  golden  hair 
They  did  themselves,  O sweetest  prison ! 
twine; 

And  fain  those  Eol’s  youth  there  would  their 
stay 

Have  made,  but  forced  by  Nature  still  to  fly, 
First  did  with  puffing  kiss  those  locks  display. 
She  so  dishevelled,  blushed : — from  window  I, 
With  sight  thereof,  cried  out,  O fair  disgrace ! 
Let  Honor’s  self  to  thee  grant  highest  place. 


With  how  sad  steps,  0 Moon,  thou  climb’st 
the  skies — 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a face ! 

What!  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly 
place 

That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 

Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 

Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel’st  a lover’s  case ; 

I read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languished  grace  ; 

To  me  that  feel  the  like  thy  state  descries. 

Then  even  of  fellowship,  0 Moon,  tell  me — 

Is  constant  love  deemed  there  but  want  of 
wit? 


SONGS. 


24*7 


Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth 
possess  ? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  ? 

Sib  Philip  Sidney. 


SONNET. 

I know  that  all  beneath  the  Moon  decays ; 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time’s  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days. 
I know  that  all  the  Muses’  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  boughf, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought ; 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  vain  praise. 
I know  frail  beauty ’s  like  the  purple  flower 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  af- 
fords ; 

That  love  a jarring  is  of  mind’s  accords, 
Where  sense  and  will  bring  under  reason’s 
power : 

Know  what  I list,  this  all  cannot  me  move, 
But  that,  alas ! I both  must  write  and  love. 

William  Drummond. 


SONNET. 

If  it  be  true  that  any  beauteous  thing 
Raises  the  pure  and  just  desire  of  man 
From  earth  to  God,  the  eternal  Fount  of  all, 
Such  I believe  my  love : for  as  in  her 
So  fair,  in  whom  I all  besides  forget, 

I view  the  gentle  work  of  her  Creator, 

I have  no  care  for  any  other  thing, 

Whilst  thus  I love.  Nor  is  it  marvellous, 
Since  the  effect  is  not  of  my  own  power, 

If  the  soul  doth,  by  nature  tempted  forth, 
Enamored  through  the  eyes, 

Repose  upon  the  eyes  which  it  resembleth, 
And  through  them  riseth  to  the  primal  Love, 
As  to  its  end,  and  honors  in  admiring ; 

For  who  adores  the  Maker  needs  must  love 
his  work. 

Michael  Angelo.  (Italian.) 
Translation  of  J.  E.  Taylor. 


PHILLIDA  AND  CORYDON. 

In  the  merrie  moneth  of  Maye, 

In  a morne  by  break  of  daye, 

With  a troupe  of  damsells  playing, 
Forth  I yode  forsooth  a-maying ; 

Where  anon  by  a wood  side, 

Where  as  May  was  in  his  pride, 

I espied  all  alone 
Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Much  adoe  there  was,  God  wot ; 

He  wold  love,  and  she  wold  not. 

She  sayd  never  man  was  trewe ; 

He  sayes  none  was  false  to  you. 

He  sayde  hee  had  lovde  her  longe 
She  sayes  love  should  have  no  wronge. 
Corydon  wold  kisse  her  then : 

She  sayes  maids  must  kisse  no  men, 

Tyll  they  doe  for  good  and  all. 

When  she  made  the  shepperde  call 
All  the  heavens  to  wytnes  truthe, 
Never  loved  a truer  youthe. 

Then  with  many  a prettie  othe, 

Yea,  and  naye,  and  faithe  and  trothe — 
Such  as  seelie  shepperdes  use 
When  they  will  not  love  abuse — 

Love,  that  had  bene  long  deluded, 

Was  with  kisses  sweete  concluded ; 
And  Phillida  with  garlands  gaye 
Was  made  the  ladye  of  the  Maye. 

Nicholas  Breton. 


LOVE  IS  A SICKNESS. 

Love  is  a sickness  full  of  woes, 

All  remedies  refusing ; 

A plant  that  most  with  cutting  grows, 
Most  barren  with  best  using. 
Why  so  ? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 

If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 
Heigh-ho ! 


248 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


Love  is  a torment  of  the  mind, 

A tempest  everlasting ; 

And  Jove  hath  made  it  of  a kind, 

Not  well,  nor  full,  nor  fasting. 
Why  so  ? 

More  we  enjoy  it,  more  it  dies ; 

If  not  enjoyed,  it  sighing  cries 
Heigh-ho ! 

Samvel  Daniel. 


THE  WHITE  ROSE. 

SENT  BY  A YORKISH  LOVER  TO  HIS  LANCAS- 
TRIAN MISTRESS. 

If  this  fair  rose  offend  thy  sight, 

Placed  in  thy  bosom  bare, 

’T  will  blush  to  find  itself  less  white, 
And  turn  Lancastrian  there. 

But  if  thy  ruby  lip  it  spy, 

As  kiss  it  thou  mayest  deign, 

With  envy  pale  ’t  will  lose  its  dye, 

And  Yorkish  turn  again. 

Anonymous. 


TRIUMPH  OF  CHARIS. 

See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love ! 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth ! 

Each  that  draws  is  a swan,  or  a dove, 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 

As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 
Unto  her  beauty. 

And,  enamored,  do  wish,  so  they  might 
But  enjoy  such  a sight, 

That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she 
would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes ! they  do  light 
All  that  Love’s  world  compriseth ; 

Do  but  look  on  her  hair ! it  is  bright 
As  Love’s  star  when  it  riseth ! 

Do  but  mark — her  forehead ’s  smoother 
Thau  words  that  soothe  her ! 


And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 

As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life, 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good,  of  the  elements' 
strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a bright  lily  grow, 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow, 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 

Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver  ? 

Or  swan’s  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smelt  o’  the  bud  of  the  brier  ? 

Or  the  nard  i’  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

O,  so  white ! 0,  so  soft ! O,  so  sweet  is  she ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


AN  EARNEST  SUIT 

TO  HIS  UNKIND  MISTRESS  NOT  TO  FORSAKE  HIM. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay ! say  nay  ! for  shame ! 

To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay ! say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 

That  hath  loved  thee  so  long, 

In  wealth  and  woe  among  ? 

And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay  ! say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 

.That  hath  given  thee  my  heart, 

Never  for  to  depart, 

Neither  for  pain  nor  smart  ? 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay ! say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 

And  have  no  more  pity 
Of  him  that  loveth  thee  ? 

Alas ! thy  cruelty ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 

Say  nay ! say  nay ! 

Sib  Thomas  Wyat. 


SONGS. 


246 


DISCOURSE  WITH  CUPID. 

Noblest  Charis,  you  that  are 

Both  my  fortune  and  my  star ! 

And  do  govern  more  my  blood, 

Than  the  various  moon  the  flood ! 

Hear  what  late  discourse  of  you 

Love  and  I have  had ; and  true. 
’Mongst  my  muses  finding  me 
Where  he  chanced  your  name  to  see 
Set,  and  to  this  softer  strain : 

“ Sure,”  said  he,  “ if  I have  brain, 

This  here  sung  can  he  no  other 
By  description,  but  my  mother ! 

So  hath  Homer  praised  her  hair ; 

So  Anacreon  drawn  the  air 
Of  her  face,  and  made  to  rise, 

Just  about  her  sparkling  eyes, 

Both  her  brows,  bent  like  my  how. 

By  her  looks  I do  her  know, 

Which  you  call  my  shafts.  And  see ! 
Such  my  mother’s  blushes  he, 

As  the  bath  your  verse  discloses 
In  her  cheeks  of  milk  and  roses ; 

Such  as  oft  I wanton  in. 

And  above  her  even  chin, 

Have  you  placed  the  bank  of  kisses 
Where,  you  say,  men  gather  blisses, 
Ripened  with  a breath  more  sweet, 

Than  when  flowers  and  west  winds  meet. 
Nay,  her  white  and  polished  neck, 

With  the  lace  that  doth  it  deck, 

Is  my  mother’s ! hearts  of  slain 
Lovers,  made  into  a chain ! 

And  between  each  rising  breast 
Lies  the  valley  called  my  nest, 

Where  I sit  and  proyne  my  wings 
After  flight ; and  put  new  strings 
To  my  shafts ! Her  very  name, 

With  my  mother’s  is  the  same.” 
w I confess  all,”  I replied, 

“ And  the  glass  hangs  by  her  side, 

And  the  girdle  ’bout  her  waist, 

All  is  Venus;  save  unchaste. 

But,  alas ! thou  seest  the  least 
Of  her  good,  who  is  the  best 
Of  her  sex ; but  couldst  thou,  Love, 

Call  to  mind  the  forms  that  strove 
For  the  apple,  and  those  three 
Make  in  one,  the  same  were  she. 


For  this  beauty  still  doth  hide 
Something  more  than  thou  hast  spied. 
Outward  grace  weak  Love  beguiles : 
She  is  Venus  when  she  smiles, 

But  she’s  Juno  when  she  walks, 

And  Minerva  when  she  talks.” 

Ben  Jonson. 


TO  CELIA. 

Deink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I will  pledge  with  mine ; 

Or  leave  a kiss  hut  in  the  cup, 

And  I ’ll  not  look  for  wine. 

The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 
Doth  ask  a drink  divine ; 

But  might  I of  Jove’s  nectar  sup, 

I would  not  change  for  thine. 

I sent  thee,  late,  a rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee, 

As  giving  it  a hope  that  there 
It  could  not  withered  be. 

But  thou  thereon  did’st  only  breathe, 
And  sent’st  it  back  to  me ; 

Since  when,  it  grows,  and  smells,  I swear, 
Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

Philostratvs.  (Greek.) 

Translation  of  Ben  Jonson. 


CUPID  AND  CAMPASPE. 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  played 
At  cards  for  kisses — Cupid  paid ; 

He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow  and  arrows, 

His  mother’s  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows — 
Loses  them  too ; then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on ’s  cheek  (but  none  knows  how) ; 
With  these  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 

And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin  ; 

All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win. 

At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 

She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O Love ! has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas ! become  of  me  ? 

John  Lyly 


250 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


HEAR,  YE  LADIES. 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  despise 
What  the  mighty  Love  hath  done ; 

Hear  examples,  and  be  wise : 

Fair  Calisto  was  a nun; 

Leda  sailing  on  the  stream, 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man, 

Love  accounting  hut  a dream, 

Doted  on  a silver  swan  ; 

Danae  in  a brazen  tower, 

Where  no  love  was,  loved  a shower. 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  are  coy, 

What  the  mighty  Love  can  do ; 

Hear  the  fierceness  of  the  hoy ; 

The  chaste  Moon  he  makes  to  woo. 
Vesta  kindling  holy  fires, 

Circled  round  about  with  spies, 

Never  dreaming  loose  desires, 

Doting  at  the  altar  dies. 

Ilion  in  a short  tower  higher, 

He  can  once  more  build  and  once  more 
fire. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcheb. 


SHALL  I TELL. 

Shall  1 tell  you  whom  I love  ? 
Hearken  then  a while  to  me  ; 

And  if  such  a woman  move 
As  I now  shall  versify, 

Be  assured ’t  is  she,  or  none, 

That  I love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 

As  e’er  yet  embraced  a heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 
To  make  known  how  much  she  hath  ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 
Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 

Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 

Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 


Reason  masters  every  sense, 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth  ; 
Lovely  as  all  excellence, 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth. 
Likelihood  enough  to  prove 
Only  worth  could  kindle  love 

Such  she  is ; and  if  you  know 
Such  a one  as  I have  sung ; 

Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so 
That  she  be  but  somewhat  young ; 

Be  assured  ’tis  she,  or  none, 

That  I love,  and  love  alone. 

William  Beowne. 


BEAUTY  CLEAR  AND  FAIR. 

Beauty  clear  and  fair, 

Where  the  air 

Rather  like  a perfume  dwells ; 

Where  the  violet  and  the  rose 
Their  blue  veins  in  blush  disclose, 
And  came  to  honor  nothing  else  ; 

Where  to  live  near, 

And  planted  there, 

Is  to  live,  and  still  live  new ; 

Where  to  gain  a favor  is 
More  than  light,  perpetual  bliss, — 
Make  me  live  by  serving  you ! 

Dear,  again  back  recall 
To  this  light 

A stranger  to  himself  and  all ; 

Both  the  wonder  and  the  story 
Shall  be  yours,  and  eke  the  glory ; 

I am  your  servant,  and  your  thrall. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher 


SPEAK,  LOVE! 

Dearest,  do  not  delay  me, 

Since,  thou  knowest,  I must  be  gone ; 
Wind  and  tide,  ’t  is  thought,  do  stay  me ; 
But ’t  is  wind  that  must  be  blown 
From  that  breath,  whose  native  smell 
Indian  odors  far  excel. 


J 


SONGS. 


251 


Oh,  then  speak,  thou  fairest  fair ! 

Kill  not  him  that  vows  to  serve  thee ; 

Rut  perfume  this  neighboring  air, 

Else  dull  silence,  sure,  will  starve  me ; 

’T  is  a word  that ’s  quickly  spoken, 
Which,  being  restrained,  a heart  is  broken. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


TAKE,  OH!  TAKE  THOSE  LIPS  AWAY. 

Take,  oh ! take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 

And  those  eyes,  like  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn ! 

But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Seals  of  love,  though  sealed  in  vain. 

Hide,  oh  ! hide  those  hills  of  snow 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears, 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears. 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

Shakespeare,  and  John  Fletcher. 


YE  MEANER  BEAUTIES. 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  numbers  than  your  light — 
You  common  people  of  the  skies— 

What  are  you  when  the  moon  shall  rise  ? 

Ye  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known, 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 

As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own — 
What  are  you  when  the  rose  is  blown  ? 

Ye  curious  chanters  of  the  wood, 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature’s  lays, 
Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents — what ’s  your  praise 
When  Philomel  her  voice  shall  raise  ? 


So  when  my  mistress  shall  be  seen 
In  sweetness  of  her  looks  and  mind ; 

By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a queen — 

Tell  me,  if  she  was  not  designed 
Th’  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


THE  LOYER  TO  THE  GLOW-WORMS 

Ye  living  lamps,  by  whose  dear  light 
The  nightingale  does  sit  so  late, 

And,  studying  all  the  summer  night, 

Her  matchless  songs  does  meditate ! 

Ye  country  comets,  that  portend 
No  war,  nor  prince’s  funeral, 

Shining  unto  no  other  end 

Than  to  presage  the  grass’s  fall ! 

Ye  glow-worms,  whose  officious  flame 
To  wandering  mowers  shows  the  way, 

That  in  the  night  have  lost  their  aim, 

And  after  foolish  fires  do  stray ! 

Your  courteous  lights  in  vain  you  waste, 
Since  Juliana  here  is  come  ; 

For  she  my  mind  hath  so  displaced, 

That  I shall  never  find  my  home. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


MRS.  ELIZ.  WHEELER, 

UNDER  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LOST  SHEPHERDESS. 

Among  the  myrtles  as  I walkt, 

Love  and  my  sighs  thus  intertalkt ; 

Tell  me,  said  I,  in  deep  distress, 

Where  I may  find  my  Shepherdess. 

Thou  fool,  said  Love,  know’st  thou  not  this  ? 
In  every  thing  that ’s  sweet,  she  is. 

In  yond’  carnation  go  and  seek, 

Where  thou  shalt  find  her  lip  and  cheek ; 

In  that  enamelled  pansy  by, 

There  thou  shalt  have  her  curious  eye ; 

In  bloom  of  peach  and  rose’s  bud, 

There  waves  the  streamer  of  her  blood. 

’T  is  true,  said  I ; and  thereupon, 

I went  to  pluck  them,  one  by  one, 


252 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


To  make  of  parts  an  union ; 

But  on  a sudden  all  were  gone. 

At  which  I stopt ; said  Love,  these  he 
The  true  resemblances  of  thee ; 

For  as  these  flowers,  thy  joys  must  die, 
And  in  the  turning  of  an  eye  ; 

And  all  thy  hopes  of  her  must  wither, 

Like  those  short  sweets  ere  knit  together. 

Robert  Herrick. 


PANGLOEY’S  WOOING  SONG. 

Love  is  the  blossom  where  there  blows 
Every  thing  that  lives  or  grows. 

Love  doth  make  the  Heavens  to  move, 
And  the  sun  doth  burn  in  love. 

Love  the  strong  and  weak  doth  yoke, 
And  makes  the  ivy  climb  the  oak ; 
Under  whose  shadows  lions  wild, 
Softened  by  love,  grow  tame  and  mild. 
Love  no  med’cine  can  appease ; 

He  burns  the  fishes  in  the  seas ; 

Not  all  the  skill  his  wounds  can  stench ; 
Not  all  the  sea  his  fire  can  quench. 

Love  did  make  the  bloody  spear 
Once  a heavy  coat  to  wear ; 

While  in  his  leaves  there  shrouded  lay 
Sweet  birds,  for  love  that  sing  and  play ; 
And  of  all  love’s  joyful  flame, 

I the  bud  and  blossom  am. 

Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 

Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be. 
See,  see  the  flowers  that  below 
Now  as  fresh  as  morning  blow ; 

And  of  all,  the  virgin  rose, 

That  as  bright  Aurora  shows — 

How  they  all  unleaved  die, 

Losing  their  virginity ; 

Like  unto  a summer-shade, 

But  now  born,  and  now  they  fade. 

Every  thing  doth  pass  away ; 

There  is  danger  in  delay. 

Come,  come  gather  then  the  rose, 

Gather  it,  or  it  you  lose. 

All  the  sand  of  Tagus’  shore 
Into  my  bosom  casts  his  ore ; 

All  the  valleys’  swimming  corn 
To  my  house  is  yearly  borne ; 


Every  grape  of  every  vine 
Is  gladly  bruised  to  make  me  wine ; 
While  ten  thousand  kings,  as  proud 
To  carry  up  my  train,  have  bowed ; 

And  a world  of  ladies  send  me, 

In  my  chambers  to  attend  me. 

All  the  stars  in  Heaven  that  shine, 

And  ten  thousand  more  are  mine : 

Only  bend  thy  knee  to  me, 

Thy  wooing  shall  thy  winning  be. 

Giles  Fletcher. 


CASTAEA. 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade, 

My  Castara  lives  unknown, 

To  no  ruder  eye  betrayed ; 

For  she ’s  to  herself  untrue 
Who  delights  i’  the  public  view. 

Such  is  her  beauty  as  no  arts 
Have  enriched  with  borrowed  grace. 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 

For  she  blushes  m her  place. 

Folly  boasts  a glorious  blood, — 

She  is  noblest  being  good. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 
What  a wanton  courtship  meant ; 

Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit, 

In  her  silence,  eloquent. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes, 

But  ’tween  men  no  difference  makes. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 
Her  grave  parents’  wise  commands ; 

And  so  innocent,  that  ill 
She  nor  acts,  nor  understands. 

Women’s  feet  run  still  astray 
If  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  court, 

Where  oft  virtue  splits  her  mast ; 

And  retiredness  thinks  the  port, 

Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 

Virtue  safely  cannot  sit 
Where  vice  is  enthroned  for  wit. 


SONGS.  253 

She  holds  that  day’s  pleasure  best 
V^here  sin  waits  not  on  delight ; 

THE  NIGHT  PIECE. 

Without  mask,  or  ball,  or  feast, 
Sweetly  spends  a winter’s  night. 

TO  JULIA. 

O’er  that  darkness  whence  is  thrust 
Prayer  and  sleep,  oft  governs  lust. 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee, 

She  her  throne  makes  Reason  climb, 

The  shooting-starres  attend  thee ; 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie ; 

Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

And  each  article  of  time, 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  Heaven  fly ; 

No  Will-o’-th  ’-Wispe  mislight  thee, 

All  her  vows  religious  he, 

Nor  snake  nor  slow- worm  bite  thee ; 

And  she  vows  her  love  to  me. 

But  on  thy  way, 

William  Habington. 

Not  making  stay, 

CANZONET. 

Since  ghost  there ’s  none  t’  affright  thee ! 

Let  not  the  darke  thee  cumber ; 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber  ? 
The  stars  of  the  night 

The  golden  sun  that  brings  the  day, 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  cleare,  without  number. 

And  lends  men  light  to  see  withal, 
In  vain  doth  cast  his  beams  away, 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 

When  they  are  blind  on  whom  they  fall ; 

Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

There  is  no  force  in  all  his  light 

And  when  I shall  meet 

To  give  the  mole  a perfect  sight. 

Thy  silvery  feet, 

But  thou,  my  sun,  more  bright  than  he 
That  shines  at  noon  in  summer  tide, 
Hast  given  me  light  and  power  to  see, 
With  perfect  skill  my  sight  to  guide ; 

My  soule  I ’le  pour  into  thee ! 

Eobeet  Heekick. 

TO  LUCASTA, 

Till  now  I lived  as  blind  as  mole 
That  hides  her  head  in  earthly  hole. 

ON  GOING  TO  THE  WARS. 

I heard  the  praise  of  Beauty’s  grace, 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I am  unkinde, 
That  from  the  nunnerie 

Yet  deemed  it  nought  but  poet’s  skill; 

Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  minde, 

I gazed  on  many  a lovely  face, 

To  warre  and  armes  I flee. 

Yet  found  I none  to  bend  my  will ; 

Which  made  me  think  that  beauty  bright 

True,  a new  mistresse  now  I chase — 

Was  nothing  else  hut  red  and  white. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 

But  now  thy  beams  have  cleared  my  sight, 

And  with  a stronger  faith  imbrace 
A sword,  a horse,  a shield. 

I blush  to  think  I was  so  blind ; 
Thy  flaming  eyes  afford  me  light, 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such. 

That  beauty’s  blaze  each  where  I find ; 

As  you,  too,  shall  adore ; 

And  yet  those  dames  that  shine  so  bright 

I could  not  love  thee,  deare,  so  much, 

Are  but  the  shadows  of  thy  light. 

Loved  I not  honor  more. 

Thomas  Watson. 

Richard  Lovelaoe. 

254 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


DISDAIN  RETURNED. 

He  that  loves  a rosy  cheek, 

Or  a coral  lip  admires, 

Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires — 

As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 

So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 

Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 
Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,  I despise 
Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips,  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win 
My  resolved  heart  to  return ; 

I have  searched  thy  soul  within, 

And  find  nought  hut  pride  and  scorn; 
I have  learned  thy  arts,  and  now 
Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 

Some  power,  in  my  revenge,  convey 
That  love  to  her  I cast  away ! 

Thomas  Cabe-w. 


TO  ALTHEA— FROM  PRISON. 

When  Love,  with  unconfined  wings, 
Hovers  within  my  gates, 

And  my  divine  Althea  brings 
To  whisper  at  my  grates ; 

When  I lie  tangled  in  her  hair 
And  fettered  to  her  eye — 

The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 
With  no  allaying  Thames, 

Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 
Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 

When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 
When  healths  and  draughts  go  free — 
Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deep, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


When,  like  committed  linnets  I 
With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  king; 

When  I shall  voice  aloud  how  good 
He  is,  how  great  should  be — 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a cage ; 

Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 
That  for  an  hermitage. 

If  I have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free — 

Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richabd  Lovelace. 


TO  LUCASTA. 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 
Away  from  thee ; 

Or  that,  when  I am  gone, 

You  or  I were  alone ; 

Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind  or  swallowing 

wave. 

But  I ’ll  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 
To  swell  my  sail, 

Or  pay  a tear  to  ’suage 
The  foaming  blue-god’s  rage ; 

For,  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I ’m  still  as  happy  as  I was. 

Though  seas  and  lands  be  ’twixt  us  both, 
Our  faith  and  troth, 

Like  separated  souls, 

All  time  and  space  controls : 

Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet, 
Unseen,  unknown ; and  greet  as  angels  greet. 

So,  then,  we  do  anticipate 
Our  after-fate, 

And  are  alive  ’i  th’  skies, 

If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 

Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  heaven — their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 

Eichabh  Lovelace. 


SONGS. 


255 


SUPERSTITION. 

I care  not,  though  it  be 

By  the  preciser  sort  thought  popery  ; 

We  poets  can  a license  show 
For  every  thing  we  do. 

Hear,  then,  my  little  saint ! I’ll  pray  to  thee. 

If  now  thy  happy  mind, 

Amidst  its  various  joys,  can  leisure  find 
To  attend  to  any  thing  so  low 
As  what  I say  or  do, 

Regard,  and  he  what  thou  wa^t  ever — kind. 

Let  not  the  blest  above 
Engross  thee  quite,  hut  sometimes  hither 
rove; 

Fain  would  I thy  sweet  image  see, 

And  sit  and  talk  with  thee ; 

Nor  is  it  curiosity,  but  love. 

Ah ! what  delight ’t  would  be, 

Wouldst  thou  sometimes,  by  stealth,  converse 
with  me ! 

How  should  I thy  sweet  commune  prize, 
And  other  joys  despise ; 

Come,  then,  I ne’er  was  yet  denied  by  thee. 

I would  not  long  detain 
Thy  soul  from  bliss,  nor  keep  thee  here  in 
pain ; 

Nor  should  thy  fellow-saints  e’er  know 
Of  thy  escape  below ; 

Before  thou  ’rt  missed,  thou  shouldst  return 
again. 

Sure  heaven  must  needs  thy  love, 

As  well  as  other  qualities,  improve ; 

Come,  then,  and  recreate  my  sight 
With  rays  of  thy  pure  light ; 

’T  will  cheer  my  eyes  more  than  the  lamps 
above. 

But  if  Fate ’s  so  severe 
As  to  confine  thee  to  thy  blissful  sphere, 
(And  by  thy  absence  I shall  know 
Whether  thy  state  be  so,) 

Live  happy,  and  be  mindful  of  me  there. 

John  Norris. 


A SONG. 

To  thy  lover, 

Dear,  discover 

That  sweet  blush  of  thine,  that  shameth 
(When  those  roses 
It  discloses) 

All  the  flowers  that  Nature  nameth. 

In  free  air 
Flow  thy  hair, 

That  no  more  Summer’s  best  dresses 
Be  beholden 
For  their  golden 

Locks,  to  Phoebus’  flaming  tresses. 

0 deliver 
Love  his  quiver . 

From  thy  eyes  he  shoots  his  arrows, 
Where  Apollo 
Cannot  follow, 

Feathered  with  his  mother’s  sparrows. 

0 envy  not 
(That  we  die  not) 

Those  dear  lips,  whose  door  encloses 
All  the  Graces 
In  their  places, 

Brother  pearls,  and  sister  roses. 

From  these  treasures 
Of  ripe  pleasures 

One  bright  smile  to  clear  the  weather ; 
Earth  and  Heaven 
Thus  made  even, 

Both  will  be  good  friends  together. 

The  air  does  woo  thee ; 

Winds  cling  to  thee ; 

Might  a word  once  fly  from  out  thee, 
Storm  and  thunder 
Would  sit  under, 

And  keep  silence  round  about  thee. 

But  if  Nature’s 
Common  creatures 
So  dear  glories  dare  not  borrow  ; 

Yet  thy  beauty 
Owes  a duty 

To  my  loving,  lingering  sorrow. 


256 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


"When,  to  end  me, 

Death  shall  send  me 
All  his  terrors  to  affright  me ; 

Thine  eyes’  graces 
Gild  their  faces, 

Ajid  those  terrors  shall  delight  me. 

"When  my  dying 
Life  is  flying, 

Those  sweet  airs  that  often  slew  me, 
Shall  revive  me, 

Or  reprieve  me 

And  to  many  deaths  renew  me. 

Biohabd  Ceashaw. 


HOW  SWEET  IT  IS  TO  LOVE. 

Ah,  how  sweet  it  is  to  love ! 

Ah,  how  gay  is  young  Desire ! 

And  what  pleasing  pains  we  prove 
When  we  first  approach  Love’s  fire ! 

Pains  of  love  he  sweeter  far 
Than  all  other  pleasures  are. 

Sighs,  which  are  from  lovers  blown, 

Do  but  geDtly  heave  the  heart ; 

E’en  the  tears  they  shed  alone, 

Cure,  like  trickling  balm,  their  smart. 
Lovers,  when  they  lose  their  breath, 
Bleed  away  in  easy  death. 

Love  and  Time  with  reverence  use-; 

Treat  them  like  a parting  friend, 

Nor  the  golden  gifts  refuse 
Which  in  youth  sincere  they  send ; 

For  each  year  their  price  is  more, 

And  they  less  simple  than  before. 

Love,  like  Spring-tides,  full  and  high, 
Swells  in  every  youthful  vein ; 

But  each  tide  does  less  supply, 

Till  they  quite  shrink  in  again ; 

If  a flow  in  age  appear, 

’T  is  but  rain,  and  runs  not  clear. 

John  Dbyden.  ; 


SONG. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 

For,  in  your  beauty’s  orient  deep, 

These  flowers,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day ; 

For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale  when  May  is  past ; 

For  in  your  sweet,  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  Phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest ; 

For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 

And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

Thomas  Cabew. 


PHILOMELA’S  ODE 

THAT  SHE  SUNG  IN  HER  ARBOR. 

Sitting  by  a river’s  side 
Where  a silent  stream  did  glide, 
Muse  I did  of  many  things 
That  the  mind  in  quiet  brings. 

I ’gan  think  how  some  men  deem 
Gold  their  god ; and  some  esteem 
Honor  is  the  chief  content 
That  to  man  in  life  is  lent; 

And  some  others  do  contend 
Quiet  none  like  to  a friend. 

Others  hold  there  is  no  wealth 
Compared  to  a perfect  health ; 
Some  man’s  mind  in  quiet  stands 
When  he ’s  lord  of  many  lands. 
But  I did  sigh,  and  said  all  this 
Was  but  a shade  of  perfect  bliss ; 


SONGS.  257 

And  in  my  thoughts  I did  approve 
Nought  so  sweet  as  is  true  love. 

THE  TOMB. 

Love  ’twixt  lovers  passeth  these, 

When  mouth  kisseth  and  heart  ’grees — 

When,  cruel  fair  one,  I am  slain 

With  folded  arms  and  lips  meeting, 

By  thy  disdain, 

Each  soul  another  sweetly  greeting ; 

And,  as  a trophy  of  thy  scorn, 

For  by  the  breath  the  soul  fleeteth, 

To  some  old  tomb  am  borne, 

And  soul  with  soul  in  kissing  meeteth. 

Thy  fetters  must  their  powers  bequeath 

If  love  be  so  sweet  a thing, 

To  those  of  Death ; 

That  such  happy  bliss  doth  bring, 

Nor  can  thy  flame  immortal  burn, 

Happy  is  love’s  sugared  thrall ; 

Like  monumental  fires  within  an  urn : 

But  unhappy  maidens  all 

Thus  freed  from  thy  proud  empire,  I shall 

Who  esteem  your  virgin  blisses 

prove 

Sweeter  than  a wife’s  sweet  kisses. 

There  is  more  liberty  in  Death  than  Love. 

No  such  quiet  to  the  mind 
As  true  love  with  kisses  kind ; 

And  when  forsaken  lovers  come 

But  if  a kiss  prove  unchaste, 

To  see  my  tomb, 

Then  is  true  love  quite  disgraced. 

Take  heed  thou  mix  not  with  the  crowd, 

Though  love  be  sweet,  learn  this  of  me, 

And,  (as  a victor)  proud 

No  sweet  love  but  honesty. 

To  view  the  spoils  thy  beauty  made, 

Robert  Greene. 

Press  near  my  shade ; 

Lest  thy  too  cruel  breath  or  name 
Should  fan  my  ashes  back  into  a flame, 

And  thou,  devoured  by  this  revengeful  fire, 

COME  AWAY,  DEATH. 

His  sacrifice,  who  died  as  thine,  expire. 
But  if  cold  earth,  or  marble,  must 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death, 

Conceal  my  dust, 
Whilst,  hid  in  some  dark  ruins,  I 
Dumb  and  forgotten  lie, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ! 

The  pride  of  all  thy  victory 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  : 

Will  sleep  with  me ; 

I am  slain  by  a fair  cruel  maid. 

And  they  who  should  attest  thy  glory, 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

Will  or  forget  or  not  believe  this  story.  • 

0,  prepare  it ; 

Then  to  increase  thy  triumph,  let  me  rest, 

My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true 

Since  by  thine  eye  slain,  buried  in  thy  breast, 

Did  share  it. 

Thomas  Stanley. 

Not  a flower,  not  a flower  sweet, 

♦ 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 
Not  a friend,  not  a friend  greet 

LOVE  NOT  ME. 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 

thrown. 

For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 

A thousand,  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Nor  for  any  outward  part, 

Lay  me,  0 ! where 

No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart; 

Sad  true-love  never  find  my  grave, 

For  those  may  fail  or  turn  to  ill, 

To  weep  there. 

So  thou  and  I shall  sever ; 

Sha.ke8pea.be. 

Keep  therefore  a true  woman’s  eye, 

17 

And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why. 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever. 

Anonymous. 

258 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


THE  EXEQUIES. 

Deaw  near 

You  lovers,  that  complain, 

Of  fortune  or  disdain, 

And  to  my  ashes  lend  a tear ! 

Melt  the  hard  marble  with  your  groans, 

And  soften  the  relentless  stones, 

Whose  cold  embraces  the  sad  subject  hide 
Of  all  Love’s  cruelties,  and  Beauty’s  pride ! 

No  verse, 

No  epicedium  bring ; 

Nor  peaceful  requiem  sing, 

To  charm  the  terrors  of  my  hearse ! 

No  profane  numbers  must  flow  near 
The  sacred  silence  that  dwells  here. 

Vast  griefs  are  dumb ; softly,  O softly 
mourn ! 

Lest  you  disturb  the  peace  attends  my  urn. 
Yet  strew 

Upon  my  dismal  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have — 

Forsaken  cypress,  and  sad  yew ; 

For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 
Weep  only  o’er  my  dust,  and  say,  “Here  lies 
To  Love  and  Fate  an  equal  sacrifice.” 

Thomas  Stanxey. 


THE  MILK-MAID’S  SONG. 

THE  SHEPHEED  TO  HIS  LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountains  yields. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I make  thee  beds  of  roses 
With  a thousand  fragrant  posies ; 

A cap  of  flowers,  and  a kirtle,  ■ 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 


A gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 

Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair-lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 

With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 

A belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 

With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 

And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing, 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning : 

If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

Chbistopheb  Maklowe. 


THE  MILK-MAID’S  MOTHER’S  ANSWER 

THE  NYMPH’S  EEPLY. 

If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd’s  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold ; 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 

And  all  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  Winter  reckoning  yields ; 

A honey  tongue,  a heart  of  gall, 

Is  fancy’s  Spring,  but  sorrow’s  FalL 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten — 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 

Thy  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs — 

All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 

Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

Sib  Walteb  Ealkigh. 


SONGS. 


TO  THALIARCHUS. 

Behold  yon  mountain’s  hoary  height, 

Made  higher  with  new  mounts  of  snow ; 
Again  behold  the  winter’s  weight 
Oppress  the  laboring  woods  below ; 

And  streams  with  icy  fetters  bound, 
Benumbed  and  cramped  to  solid  ground. 

With  well-heaped  logs  dissolve  the  cold, 

And  feed  the  genial  hearth  with  fires ; 
Produce  the  wine  that  makes  us  bold, 

And  sprightly  wit  of  love  inspires. 

For  what  hereafter  shall  betide, 

Jove,  if ’t  is  worth  his  care,  provide ! 

Let  him  alone,  with  what  he  made, 

To  toss  and  turn  the  world  below ; 

At  his  command  the  storms  invade ; 

The  winds  by  his  commission  blow  ; 

Till  with  a nod  he  bids  them  cease, 

And  then  the  calm  returns,  and  all  is  peace. 

To-morrow  and  her  works  defy — 

Lay  hold  upon  the  present  hour, 

And  snatch  the  pleasures  passing  by, 

To  put  them  out  of  Fortune’s  power. 

Nor  Love,  nor  Love’s  delights,  disdain ; 
Whate’er  thou  gett’st  to-day  is  gain. 

Secure  those  golden,  early  joys, 

That  youth,  unsoured  by  sorrow,  bears, 
Ere  withering  Time  the  taste  destroys 
With  sickness  and  unwieldy  years. 

For  active  sports,  for  pleasing  rest, 

This  is  the  time  to  be  possest ; 

The  best  is  but  in  season  best. 

Th’  appointed  hour  of  promised  bliss, 

The  pleasing  whisper  in  the  dark, 

The  half-unwilling,  willing  kiss, 

The  laugh  that  guides  thee  to  the  mark 
When  the  kind  nymph  would  coyness  feign, 
And  hides  but  to  be  found  again  : 

These,  these  are  joys  the  gods  for  youth  ordain. 

Horace.  (Latin.) 

Translation  of  John  Dryden. 


259 

WELCOME,  WELCOME. 

Welcome , welcome , do  I sing , 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  Spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never , 

Shall  enjoy  a Spring  for  ever. 

Love  that  to  the  voice  is  near, 

Breaking  from  your  ivory  pale, 

Need  not  walk  abroad  to  hear 
The  delightful  nightingale. 

Welcome,  welcome , then  I sing , 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  Spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 

Shall  enjoy  a Spring  for  ever. 

Love,  that  still  looks  on  your  eyes, 

Though  the  Winter  have  begun 
To  benumb  our  arteries, 

Shall  not  want  the  Summer’s  sun. 
Welcome,  welcome,  then  I sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  Spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 

Shall  enjoy  a Spring  for  ever. 

Love,  that  still  may  see  your  cheeks, 
Where  all  rareness  still  reposes, 

Is  a fool  if  e’er  he  seeks 
Other  lilies,  other  roses. 

Welcome,  welcome , then  I sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  Spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 

Shall  enjoy  a Spring  for  ever. 

Love,  to  whom  your  soft  lip  yields, 

And  perceives  your  breath  in  kissing, 
All  the  odors  of  the  fields 
Never,  never  shall  be  missing. 

Welcome,  welcome , then  I sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  Spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 

Shall  enjoy  a Spring  for  ever. 

Love,  that  question  would  anew 
What  fair  Eden  was  of  old, 

Let  him  rightly  study  you, 

And  a brief  of  that  behold. 

Welcome , welcome,  then  I sing, 

Far  more  welcome  than  the  Spring  ; 
He  that  parteth  from  you  never, 

Shall  enjoy  a Spring  for  ever. 

William  Browne. 


260 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


BLEST  AS  THE  IMMORTAL  GODS. 

Blest  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 

The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee, 

And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak,  and  sweetly  smile. 

’T  was  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest, 

And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast ; 
For  while  I gazed,  in  transport  tost, 

My  breath  was  gone,  my  voice  was  lost. 

My  bosom  glowed ; the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quick  through  all  my  vital  frame ; 
O’er  my  dim  eyes  a darkness  hung ; 

My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chilled ; 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrilled ; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play — 

I fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away. 

Sappho.  (Greek.) 

Translation  of  Amseosh  Phillips. 


KULNASATZ,  MY  REINDEER. 

A LAPLAND  SONG. 

Ktjlnasatz,  my  reindeer, 

We  have  a long  journey  to  go ; 

The  moors  are  vast, 

And  we  must  haste. 

Our  strength,  I fear, 

Will  fail,  if  we  are  slow ; 

And  so 

Our  songs  will  do. 

KaigS,  the  watery  moor, 

Is  pleasant  unto  me, 

Though  long  it  be, 

Since  it  doth  to  my  mistress  lead, 
Whom  I adore ; 

The  Kilwa  moor 
I ne’er  again  will  tread. 


Thoughts  filled  my  mind, 

Whilst  I through  Kaige  passed 
Swift  as  the  wind, 

And  my  desire 

Winged  with  impatient  fire ; 

My  reindeer,  let  us  haste ! 

So  shall  we  quickly  end  our  pleasing  pain — 
Behold  my  mistress  there, 

With  decent  motion  walking  o’er  the  plain. 
Kulnasatz,  my  reindeer, 

Look  yonder  where 
She  washes  in  the  lake ! 

See,  while  she  swims, 

The  water  from  her  purer  limbs 
New  clearness  take ! 

Anonymous. 


LINES  TO  AN  INDIAN  AIR. 

I arise  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright. 

I arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? 

To  thy  chamber  window,  sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs,  they  faint 
On  the  dark  and  silent  stream — 

The  champak  odors  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a dream ; 

The  nightingale’s  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart, 

As  I must  on  thine, 

Beloved  as  thou  art ! 

Oh,  lift  me  from  the  grass ! 

I die,  I faint,  I fail ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 

My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast; 

O ! press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

Pebcy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


SONGS.  261 


MAID  OF  ATHENS,  ERE  WE  PART. 

Zoarj  fiov , ads  dyaira). 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 

Give,  O,  give  me  hack  my  heart ! 

Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 

Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest ! 

Hear  my  vow  before  I go, 

Zoor)  fiov , ads  dyand). 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 

Wooed  by  each  AEgean  wind ; 

By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks’  blooming  tinge ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 

Zdarj  fiov , ads  ayaird). 

By  that  lip  I long  to  taste ; 

By  that  zone-encircled  waist ; 

By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well ; 
By  love’s  alternate  joy  and  woe, 

Zdor]  fiov , ads  dycnra). 

Maid  of  Athens ! I am  gone 
Think  of  me,  sweet,  when  alone. 
Though  I fly  to  Istambol, 

Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul. 

Can  I cease  to  love  thee  ? No ! 

Zdor}  fiov , aas  dyand). 

Lord  Byron. 


SONNET. 

The  might  of  one  fair  face  sublimes  my  love, 
For  it  hath  weaned  my  heart  from  low  de- 
sires ; 

Nor  death  I heed,  nor  purgatorial  fires. 

Thy  beauty,  antepast  of  joys  above, 
instructs. me  in  the  bliss  that  saints  approve; 
For  0 ! how  good,  how  beautiful,  must  he 
The  God  that  made  so  good  a thing  as  thee, 
So  fair  an  image  of  the  heavenly  Dove. 
Forgive  me  if  I cannot  turn  away 
From  those  sweet  eyes  that  are  my  earthly 
heaven, 

For  they  are  guiding  stars,  benignly  given 


To  tempt  my  footsteps  to  the  upward  way ; 
And  if  I dwell  too  fondly  in  thy  sight, 

I live  and  love  in  God’s  peculiar  light. 

Michael  Angelo.  (Italian.) 
Translation  of  Hartley  Coleridge. 


LOVE’S  PHILOSOPHY. 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river, 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean ; 

The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever, 
With  a sweet  emotion ; 

Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a law  divine 

In  one  another’s  being  mingle — 

Why  not  I with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 

No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdained  its  brother ; 

And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea ; — 

What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


TO . 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it, 

One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 
For  thee  to  disdain  it. 

One  hope  is  too  like  despair 
For  prudence  to  smother, 

And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 

I can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 
And  the  Heavens  reject  not : 

The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 

The  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


262 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


THE  GIRL  OF  CADIZ. 

i. 

Oh,  never  talk  again  to  me 
Of  northern  climes  and  British  ladies ; 

It  has  not  been  your  lot  to  see 
Like  me,  the  lovely  Girl  of  Cadiz. 

Although  her  eyes  he  not  of  blue, 

Nor  fair  her  locks,  like  English  lasses’, 

How  far  its  own  expressive  hue 
The  languid  azure  eye  surpasses ! 

n. 

Prometheus-like,  from  heaven  she  stole 
The  fire  that  through  those  silken  lashes 

In  darkest  glances  seems  to  roll, 

From  eyes  that  cannot  hide  their  flashes ; 

And  as  along  her  bosom  steal 
In  lengthened  flow  her  raven  tresses, 

You ’d  swear  each  clustering  lock  could  feel, 
And  curled  to  give  her  neck  caresses. 

hi. 

Our  English  maids  are  long  to  woo, 

And  frigid  even  in  possession ; 

And  if  their  charms  be  fair  to  view, 

Their  lips  are  slow  at  Love’s  confession ; 

But,  born  beneath  a brighter  sun, 

For  love  ordained  the  Spanish  maid  is, 

And  who, — when  fondly,  fairly  won, — 
Enchants  you  like  the  Girl  of  Cadiz  ? 

IV. 

The  Spanish  maid  is  no  coquette, 

Nor  joys  to  see  a lover  tremble ; 

And  if  she  love,  or  if  she  hate, 

Alike  she  knows  not  to  dissemble. 

Her  heart  can  ne’er  be  bought  or  sold — 
Howe’er  it  beats,  it  beats  sincerely ; 

And,  though  it  will  not  bend  to  gold, 

’T  will  love  you  long,  and  love  you  dearly. 

v. 

The  Spanish  girl  that  meets  your  love 
Ne’er  taunts  you  with  a mock  denial ; 

For  every  thought  is  bent  to  prove 
Her  passion  in  the  hour  of  trial. 

When  thronging  foemen  menace  Spain 
She  dares  the  deed  and  shares  the  danger ; 

And  should  her  lover  press  the  plain, 

She  hurls  the  spear,  her  love’s  avenger. 


VI. 

And  when,  beneath  the  evening  star, 

She  mingles  in  the  gay  Bolero ; 

Or  sings  to  her  attuned  guitar 
Of  Christian  knight  or  Moorish  hero ; 

Or  counts  her  beads  with  fairy  hand 
Beneath  the  twinkling  rays  of  Hesper ; 

Or  joins  devotion’s  choral  band 
To  chant  the  sweet  and  hallowed  vesper : 

VII. 

In  each  her  charms  the  heart  must  move 
Of  all  who  venture  to  behold  her. 

Then  let  not  maids  less  fair  reprove, 
Because  her  bosom  is  not  colder ; 

Through  many  a clime ’t  is  mine  to  roam 
Where  many  a soft  and  melting  maid  is. 

But  none  abroad,  and  few  at  home, 

May  match  the  dark-eyed  Girl  of  Cadiz. 

Lord  Byron. 


SONG. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken  curtain  for  my  head, 

My  lullaby  the  warder’s  tread, 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary ; 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 

My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 

My  vesper  song  thy  wail,  sweet  maid ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary ! 

I may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 
The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow  ; 

I dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow, 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary. 

No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know  ; 
When  bursts  Clan- Alpine  on  the  foe, 

His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow, 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary. 

A time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught ! 
For,  if  I fall  in  battle  fought, 

Thy  hapless  lover’s  dying  thought 
Shall  be  a thought  on  thee,  Mary  ! 

And  if  returned  from  conquered  foes, 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 

How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose 
To  my  young  bride  and  me,  Mary ! 

Sib  Walter  Scott. 


SONGS. 


26JJ 


STANZAS  FOR  MUSIC. 

There  be  none  of  Beauty’s  daughters 
With  a magic  like  thee ; 

And  like  music  on  the  waters 
Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me : 

When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean’s  pausing, 

The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 

And  the  lulled  winds  seem  dreaming. 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o’er  the  deep, 
Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving, 

As  an  infant’s  asleep ; 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee, 

To  listen  and  adore  thee. 

With  a full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer’s  ocean. 

Loed  Byron. 


ROBIN  ADAIR. 

Welcome  on  shore  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 

Welcome  once  more  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 

I feel  thy  trembling  hand ; 

Tears  in  thy  eyelids  stand, 

To  greet  thy  native  land, 

Robin  Adair ! 

Long  I ne’er  saw  thee,  love, 

Robin  Adair ! 

Still  I prayed  for  thee,  love, 

Robin  Adair ! 

When  thou  wert  far  at  sea 

Many  made  love  to  me, 

But  still  I thought  on  thee, 

Robin  Adair ! 

Come  to  my  heart  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 

Never  to  part  again, 

Robin  Adair ! 

And  if  thou  still  art  true, 

I will  be  constant  too, 

And  will  wed  none  but  you, 

Robin  Adair ! 

Anonymous. 


HERE’S  A HEALTH  TO  ANE  I LO’E 
DEAR. 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear , 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear  ; 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  loners 
meet , 

And  soft  as  the 'parting  tear — Jessy  ! 

Altho’  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Altho’  even  hope  is  denied, 

’T  is  sweeter  for  thee  despairing 
Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — Jessy ! 

I mourn  thro’  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 

As,  hopeless,  I muse  on  thy  charms ; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o’  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I am  locked  in  thy  arms — Jessy ! 

I guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I guess  by  the  love-rolling  ee ; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 
’Gainst  fortune’s  fell  cruel  decree — Jessy ! 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear , 

Here's  a health  to  ane  I lo'e  dear  ; 

Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers 
meet , 

And  soft  as  the  parting  tear — Jessy  ! 

Robert  Burns. 


CA’  THE  YOWES  TO  THE  KNOWES. 

Ca)  the  yowes  to  the  knowes , 

Co)  them  where  the  heather  grows , 

Ca)  them  where  the  burnie  rows , 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Hark  the  mavis’  evening  sang 
Sounding  Clouden’s  woods  amang; 
Then  a faulding  let  us  gang, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

We  ’ll  gae  down  by  Clouden  side, 

Thro’  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 

O’er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide 
To  the  moon  sae  clearly. 

Yonder  Clouden’s  silent  towers, 

Where  at  moonshine,  midnight  hours, 
O’er  the  dewy  bending  flowors, 

Fairies  dance  sae  cheery. 


264 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thon  fear ; 

Thou  ’rt  to  love  and  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  stown  my  very  heart ; 

I can  die — but  canna  part, 

My  bonnie  dearie. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea, 

While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie, 

Till  clay-cauld  death  shall  blin’  my  ee, 
Ye  shall  be  my  dearie. 

CcC  the  yowes  to  the  icnowes, 

Ca?  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca?  them  where  the  burnie  rows , 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Robert  Burns. 


MERRY  MAY  THE  KEEL  ROWE. 

As  I came  down  through  Cannobie, 
Through  Cannobie,  through  Cannobie, 
The  summer  sun  had  shut  his  ee, 

And  loud  a lass  did  sing-o : 

Ye  westlin  winds,  all  gently  blow ; 

Ye  seas,  soft  as  my  wishes  flow ; 

And  merry  may  the  shallop  rowe 
That  my  true  love  sails  in-o ! 

My  love  hath  breath  like  roses  sweet, 
Like  roses  sweet,  like  roses  sweet, 

And  arms  like  lilies  dipt  in  weet, 

To  fold  a maiden  in-o. 

There ’s  not  a wave  that  swells  the  sea 
But  bears  a prayer  and  wish  frae  me ; — 
O soon  may  I my  true-love  see, 

Wi’  his  bauld  bands  again-o ! 

My  lover  wears  a bonnet  blue, 

A bonnet  blue,  a bonnet  blue — 

A rose  so  white,  a heart  so  true 
A dimple  on  his  chin-o. 

He  bears  a blade  his  foes  have  felt, 

And  nobles  at  his  nod  have  knelt ; 

My  heart  will  break  as  well  as  melt, 
Should  he  ne’er  come  again-o. 

Anonymous. 


FAREWELL  TO  NANCY. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I ’ll  pledge  thee ; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I ’ll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 

Me,  nae  cheerfu’  twinkle  lights  me ; 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I ’ll  ne’er  blame  my  partial  fancy — 
Naething  could  resist  my  Haney : 

But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 

Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 

Never  met — or  never  parted, 

We  had  ne’er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ! 

Ae  fareweel,  alas ! for  ever ! 

Deep  in  heart- wrung  tears  I ’ll  pledge  thee ; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I ’ll  wage  thee. 

Robert  Burns. 


OF  A’  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN 
BLAW. 

Of  a’  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I dearly  like  the  west ; 

For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I lo’e  best. 

There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row/ 
And  monie  a hill  between ; 

But  day  and  night  my  fancy’s  flight 
Is  ever  wi’  my  Jean. 

I see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I see  her  sweet  and  fair ; 

I hear  her  in  the  tunefu’  birds, 

I hear  her  charm  the  air ; 

There ’s  not  a bonnie  flower  that  springs 
By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green — 

There ’s  not  a bonnie  bird  that  sings, 
But  minds  me  o’  my  Jean. 

Robert  Burns. 


SONGS. 


265 


THE  LASS  OF  BALLOCHMYLE. 

’T  was  even — the  dewy  fields  were  green, 
On  every  blade  the  pearls  did  hang ; 

The  zephyr  wantoned  round  the  bean 
And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang ; 

In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang, 

All  nature  listening  seemed  the  while, 

Except  where  green- wood  echoes  rang 
Amang  the  braes  o’  Ballochmyle. 

With  careless  step  I onward  strayed ; 

My  heart  rejoiced  in  nature’s  joy ; 

When  musing  in  a lonely  glade, 

A maiden  fair  I chanced  to  spy. 

Her  look  was  like  the  morning’s  eye, 

Her  air  like  nature’s  vernal  smile ; 

Perfection  whispered,  passing  by, 

Behold  the  lass  o’  Ballochmyle ! 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  autumn  mild, 

When  roving  thro’  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wandering  in  a lonely  wild  ; 

But  Woman,  nature’s  darling  child  ! 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compile ; 

Ev’n  there  her  other  works  are  foiled 
By  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Oh,  had  she  been  a country  maid, 

And  I the  happy  country  swain, 

Tho’  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 
That  ever  rose  in  Scotland’s  plain ! 

Thro’  weary  winter’s  wind  and  rain 
With  joy,  with  rapture,  I would  toil ; 

And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 
The  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slipp’ry  steep 
Where  fame  and  honors  lofty  shine  ; 

And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 
Or  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine. 

Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks  or  till  the  soil, 

And  every  day  have  joys  divine 

With  the  bonnie  lass  o’  Ballochmyle. 

Robert  Burns. 


A RED,  RED  ROSE. 

O,  my  luve ’s  like  a red,  red  rose, 

That ’s  newly  sprung  in  June ; 

0,  my  luve ’s  like  the  melodie 
That ’s  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I ; 

And  I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry — 

Till  a’  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi’  the  sun; 

I will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  of  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve ! 
And  fare  thee  weel  a while ! 

And  I will  come  again,  my  luve, 

Tho’  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Robert  Burns. 


ANNIE  LAURIE. 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie 
Where  early  fa’s  the  dew, 

And  it ’s  there  that  Annie  Laurie 
Gie’d  me  her  promise  true ; 

Gie’d  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne’er  forgot  will  be  ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I ’d  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw  drift ; 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan  ; 

Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 
That  e’er  the  sun  shone  on — 

That  e’er  the  sun  shone  on — 

And  dark  blue  is  her  ee  ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’d  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 
Is  the  fa’  o’  her  fairy  feet ; 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 


266 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet — 

And  she’s  a’  the  world  to  me ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I’d  lay  me  doune  and  dee. 

Anonymous. 


THOU  HAST  VOWED  BY  THY  FAITH, 
MY  JEANIE. 

Thou  hast  vowed  by  thy  faith,  my  Jeanie, 

By  that  pretty  white  hand  o’  thine, 

And  by  all  the  lowing  stars  in  heaven, 

That  thou  wad  aye  he  mine ! 

And  I have  sworn  by  my  faith,  my  Jeanie, 
And  by  that  kind  heart  o’  thine, 

By  all  the  stars  sown  thick  o’er  heaven, 

That  thou  shalt  aye  he  mine ! 

Then  foul  fa’  the  hands  wad  loose  sic  hands, 
And  the  heart  wad  part  sic  love ; 

But  there ’s  nae  hand  can  loose  the  hand, 

But  the  finger  of  Him  above. 

Tho’  the  wee,  wee  cot  maun  be  my  bield, 

An’  my  clothing  e’er  so  mean, 

I should  lap  up  rich  in  the  faulds  of  love, 
Heaven’s  armfu’  o’  my  Jean. 

Her  white  arm  wad  he  a pillow  to  me, 

Far  softer  than  the  down ; 

And  Love  wad  winnow  o’er  us,  his  kind,  kind 
wings, 

And  sweetly  we’d  sleep,  an’  soun’. 

Come  here  to  me,  thou  lass  whom  I love, 
Come  here  and  kneel  wi’  me ; 

The  morn  is  full  of  the  presence  of  God, 

And  I canna  pray  hut  thee. 

The  morn-wind  is  sweet  araang  the  new 
flowers : 

The  wee  birds  sing  saft  on  the  tree, 

Our  gudeman  sits  in  the  bourne  sunshine 
And  a blithe  auld  bodie  is  he. 

The  Beuk  maun  he  ta’en  whan  he  cornea 
hame, 

Wi’  the  holy  psalmodie ; 

And  I will  speak  of  thee  whan  I pray, 

And  thou  maun  speak  of  me. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


THE  FLOWER  O’  DUMBLANE. 

The  sun  has  gane  down  o’er  the  lofty  Benlo- 
mond, 

And  left  the  red  clouds  to  preside  o’er  the 
scene, 

While  lanely  I stray  in  the  calm  summer 
gloamin’, 

To  muse  on  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  d’ 
Dumblane. 

How  sweet  is  the  brier,  wi’  its  saft  fauldin’ 
blossom, 

And  sweet  is  the  hirk,  wi’  its  mantle  o’ 
green ; 

Yet  sweeter  and  fairer,  and  dear  to  this 
bosom, 

Is  lovely  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o’  Dum- 
blane. 

She ’s  modest  as  ony,  and  blithe  as  she ’s 
bonnie — 

For  guileless  simplicity  marks  her  its  ain; 

And  far  he  the  villain,  divested  of  feeling, 

Wha ’d  blight  in  its  bloom  the  sweet  flower 
o’  Dumblane. 

Sing  on,  thou  sweet  mavis,  thy  hymn  to  the 
e’ening — 

Thou’rt  dear  to  the  echoes  of  Calder- 
wood  glen ; 

Sae  dear  to  this  bosom,  sae  artless  and  winning, 

Is  charming  young  Jessie,  the  flower  o’ 
Dumblane. 

How  lost  were  my  days  till  I met  wi’  my 
Jessie ! 

The  sports  o’  the  city  seemed  foolish  and 
vain ; 

I ne’er  saw  a nymph  I would  ca’  my  dear 
lassie 

Till  charmed  wi’  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower 
o’  Dumblane. 

Though  mine  were  the  station  o’  loftiest 
grandeur, 

Amidst  its  profusion  I ’d  languish  in  pain, 

And  reckon  as  naetliing  the  height  o’  its 
splendor, 

If  wanting  sweet  Jessie,  the  flower  o’ 
Dumblane. 

Robert  Tannahill. 


j 


SONGS. 


267 


GENTLE  HUGH  HERRIES. 

Go  seek  in  the  wild  glen 

"Where  streamlets  are  falling ! 

Go  seek  on  the  lone  hill 
Where  curlews  are  calling! 

Go  seek  when  the  clear  stars 
Shine  down  without  number, 

For  there  shall  ye  find  him, 

My  true  love,  in  slumber. 

They  sought  in  the  wild  glen — 

The  glen  was  forsaken ; 

They  sought  on  the  mountain, 

’ Mang  lang  lady-bracken  ; 

And  sore,  sore  they  hunted, 

My  true  love  to  find  him, 

With  the  strong  bands  of  iron 
To  fetter  and  hind  him. 

Yon  green  hill  I’ll  give  thee, 

Where  the  falcon  is  flying, 

To  show  me  the  den  where 
This  bold  traitor ’s  lying ; 

0 make  me  of  Nithsdale’s 
Fair  princedom  the  heiress — 

Is  that  worth  one  smile  of 
My  gentle  Hugh  Herries  ? 

The  white  bread,  the  sweet  milk, 

And  ripe  fruits,  I found  him, 

And  safe  in  my  fond  arms 
I clasped  and  I wound  him ; 

1 warn  you  go  not  where 
My  true  lover  tarries, 

For  sharp  smites  the  sword  of 
My  gentle  Hugh  Herries. 

They  reined  their  proud  war-steeds — 
Away  they  went  sweeping ; 

And  behind  them  dames  wailed,  and 
Fair  maidens  went  weeping ; 

But  deep  in  yon  wild  glen, 

’Mang  banks  of  blae-berries, 

I dwell  with  my  loved  one, 

My  gentle  Hugh  Herries. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


O,  SAW  YE  THE  LASS. 

O,  saw  ye  the  lass  wi’  the  bonny  blue  een  ? 

Her  smile  is  the  sweetest  that  ever  was  seen ; 

Her  cheek  like  the  rose  is,  but  fresher,  I ween ; 

She ’s  the  loveliest  lassie  that  trips  on  the 
green. 

The  home  of  my  love  is  below  in  the  valley 

Where  wild  flowers  welcome  the  wandering 
bee; 

But  the  sweetest  of  flow’rs  in  that  spot  that 
is  seen 

Is  the  dear  one  I love  wi’  the  bonny  blue  een. 

When  night  overshadows  her  cot  in  the  glen, 

She  ’ll  steal  out  to  meet  her  loved  Donald 
again ; 

And  when  the  moon  shines  on  yon  valley  so 
green, 

I ’ll  welcome  the  lass  wi’  the  bonny  blue  een. 

As  the  dove  that  has  wandered  away  from 
his  nest, 

Returns  to  his  mate  his  fond  heart  loves  the 
best, 

I ’ll  fly  from  the  world’s  false  and  vanishing 
scene, 

To  my  dear  one,  the  lass  wi’  the  bonny  blue 
een. 

ANONYMOU8. 


MY  NANNIE-O. 

Red  rowes  the  Nith  ’tween  bank  and  brae ; 

Mirk  is  the  night  and  rainie-O' — 

Though  heaven  and  earth  should  mix  in 
storm, 

I ’ll  gang  and  see  my  Nannie-o ; 

My  Nannie-o,  my  Nannie-o, 

My  kind  and  winsome  Nannie-o, 

She  holds  my  heart  in  love’s  dear  bands, 

And  nane  can  do ’t  but  Nannie-o. 

In  preaching  time  sae  meek  she  stands, 

Sae  saintly  and  sae  bonnie-o, 

I cannot  get  ae  glimpse  of  grace 
For  thieving  looks  at  Nannie-o  ; 

My  Nannie-o,  my  Nannie-o ; 

The  world ’s  in  love  with  Nannie-o ; 

That  heart  is  hardly  worth  the  wear 
That  wadna  love  my  Nannie-o. 


268 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


My  breast  can  scarce  contain  my  heart, 
When  dancing  she  moves  finely-o ; 

I guess  what  heaven  is  by  her  eyes, 

They  sparkle  sae  divinely-o; 

My  Nannie-o,  my  Nannie-o ; 

The  flower  of  Njthsdale’s  Nannie-o  l 
Love  looks  frae  ’neath  her  lang  brown  hair, 
And  says,  I dwell  with  Nannie-o. 

Tell  not,  thou  star,  at  gray  daylight, 

O’er  Tinwald-top  so  bonnie-o, 

My  footsteps  ’mang  the  morning  dew 
When  coming  frae  my  Nannie-o ; 

My  Nannie-o,  my  Nannie-o ; 

Nane  ken  o’  me  and  Nannie-o  ; 

The  stars  and  moon  may  tell  ’ t aboon — 
They  winna  wrang  my  Nannie-o ! 

Allan  Cunningham. 


BONNIE  LESLIE. 

O saw  ye  bonnie  Leslie 
As  she  gaed  o’er  the  border  ? 

She ’s  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 

And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 

And  ne’er  made  sic  anither. 

Thou  art  a queen,  fair  Leslie — 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Leslie — 

The  hearts  o’  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He ’d  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 

And  say,  “I  canna  wrang  thee.” 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee  ; 
Misfortune  sha’na  steer  thee  ; 

Thou  ’rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 
That  ill  they  ’ll  ne’er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Leslie ! 

Return  to  Caledonia ! 

That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a lass 
There ’s  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

Robert  Burns. 


FAIR  INES. 

i. 

O saw  ye  not  fair  Ines  ? 

She ’s  gone  into  the  west, 

To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down, 

And  rob  the  world  of  rest ; 

She  took  our  daylight  with  her, 

The  smiles  that  we  love  best, 

With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek, 
And  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

ii. 

0 turn  again,  fair  Ines, 

Before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone, 
And  stars  unrivalled  bright ; 

And  blessed  will  the  lover  be 
That  walks  beneath  their  light, 

And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek 

1 dare  not  even  write ! 

HI. 

Would  I had  been,  fair  Ines, 

That  gallant  cavalier 

Who  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side, 

And  whispered  thee  so  near ! — 

Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home, 
Or  no  true  lovers  here, 

That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win 
The  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

IV. 

I saw  thee,  lovely  Ines, 

Descend  along  the  shore, 

With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen, 

And  banners  waved  before ; 

And  gentle  youth  and  maidens  gay, 
And  snowy  plumes  they  wore ; — 

It  would  have  been  a beauteous  dream, 
— If  it  had  been  no  more ! 

v. 

Alas ! alas ! fair  Ines ! 

She  went  away  with  song, 

With  music  waiting  on  her  steps, 

And  shoutings  of  the  throng ; 


SONGS.  269 

But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth, 

And,  at  night,  when  gazing 

But  only  Music’s  wrong, 

On  the  gay  hearth  blazing, 

In  sounds  that  sang  Farewell,  Farewell 

0,  still  remember  me  ! 

To  her  you ’ve  loved  so  long. 

Then  should  music,  stealing 
All  the  soul  of  feeling, 

VI. 

To  thy  heart  appealing, 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines ! 

Draw  one  tear  from  thee — 

That  vessel  never  bore 

Then  let  memory  bring  thee 

So  fair  a lady  on  its  deck, 

Strains  I used  to  sing  thee ; 

Nor  danced  so  light  before — 

0 then  remember  me ! 

Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea, 

And  sorrow  on  the  shore ! 

The  smile  that  blest  one  lover’s  heart 
Has  broken  many  more ! 

Thomas  Moobe. 

Thomas  Hood. 

FLY  TO  THE  DESERT. 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me — 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 

GO  WHERE  GLORY  WAITS  THEE! 
Go  where  glory  waits  thee ; 

But,  0 ! the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt, 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without  ? 

But,  while  Fame  elates  thee, 

Our  rocks  are  rough ; hut  smiling  there 

0 still  remember  me ! 

Th’  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair — 

When  the  praise  thou  meetest 

Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 

To  thine  ear  is  sweetest, 
0 then  remember  me ! 

1 

For  flowering  in  a wilderness. 

Other  arms  may  press  thee, 

Our  sands  are  hare ; but  down  their  slope 

Dearer  friends  caress  thee — 

The  silvery-footed  antelope 

All  the  joys  that  bless  thee 

As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 

Sweeter  far  may  he ; 

As  o’er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

But  when  friends  are  nearest, 

. • 

And  when  joys  are  dearest, 

Then  come — thy  Arab  maid  will  be 

0 then  remember  me ! 

The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree — 

When,  at  eve,  thou  rovest 

The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 

By  the  star  thou  lovest, 
0 then  remember  me ! 

With  their  light  sound  thy  loveliness. 

Think  when  home  returning, 

0 ! there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 

Bright  we ’ve  seen  it  burning, 

An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart, — 

0,  thus  remember  me ! 

As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 

Oft  as  summer  closes, 
When  thine  eye  reposes 

Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought ; 

On  its  lingering  roses, 

As  if  the  very  lips  and  eyes 

Once  so  loved  by  thee, 

Predestined  to  have  all  our  sighs. 

Think  of  her  who  wove  them, 

And  never  be  forgot  again, 

Her  who  made  thee  love  them  ; 
0 then  remember  me ! 

Sparkled  and  spoke  before  us  then ! 
So  came  thy  every  glance  and  tone, 

When,  around  thee  dying, 

When  first  on  me  they  breathed  and  shone ; 

Autumn  leaves  are  lying, 

New  as  if  brought  from  other  spheres, 

0 then  remember  me ! 

Yet  welcome  as  if  loved  for  years. 

270 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


Then  fly  with  me, — if  thon  hast  known 
No  other  flame,  nor  falsely  thrown 
A gem  away,  that  thou  hadst  sworn 
Should  ever  in  thy  heart  he  worn ; 

Come,  if  the  love  thou  hast  for  me, 

Is  pure  and  fresh  as  mine  for  thee — 
Fresh  as  the  fountain  under  ground, 
When  first ’t  is  by  the  lapwing  found. 

But  if  for  me  thou  dost  forsake 
Some  other  maid,  and  rudely  break 
Her  worshipped  image  from  its  base, 

To  give  to  me  the  ruined  place — 

Then,  fare  thee  well ; I ’d  rather  make 
My  bower  upon  some  icy  lake 
When  thawing  suns  begin  to  shine, 

Than  trust  to  love  so  false  as  thine ! 

Thomas  Mooee. 


LOVELY  MARY  DOHHELLY. 

0,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  it ’s  you  I love  the 
best ! 

If  fifty  girls  were  around  you,  I ’d  hardly  see 
the  rest ; 

Be  what  it  may  the  time  of  day,  the  place  be 
where  it  will, 

Sweet  looks  of  Mary  Donnelly,  they  bloom 
before  me  still. 

Her  eyes  like  mountain  water  that ’s  flowing 
on  a rock, 

How  clear  they  are,  how  dark  they  are! 
and  they  give  me  many  a shock ; 

Red  rowans  warm  in  sunshine,  and  wetted 
with  a shower. 

Could  ne’er  express  the  charming  lip  that 
has  me  in  its  pow’r. 

Her  nose  is  straight  and  handsome,  her  eye- 
brows lifted  up, 

Her  chin  is  very  neat  and  pert,  and  smooth 
like  a china  cup ; 

Her  hair’s  the  brag  of  Ireland,  so  weighty 
and  so  fine — 

It ’s  rolling  down  upon  her  neck,  and  gath- 
ered in  a twine. 


The  dance  o’  last  Whit  Monday  night  exceed 
ed  all  before — 

Ho  pretty  girl  for  miles  around  was  missing 
from  the  floor ; 

But  Mary  kept  the  belt  of  love,  and  0 ! but 
she  was  gay ; 

She  danced  a jig,  she  sung  a song,  and  took 
my  heart  away ! 

When  she  stood  up  for  dancing,  her  steps 
were  so  complete, 

The  music  nearly  killed  itself,  to  listen  to  her 
feet; 

The  fiddler  mourned  his  blindness,  he  heard 
her  so  much  praised ; 

But  blessed  himself  he  wasn’t  deaf  when 
once  her  voice  she  raised. 

And  evermore  I’m  whistling  or  lilting  what 
you  sung ; 

Your  smile  is  always  in  my  heart,  your  name 
beside  my  tongue. 

But  you’ve  as  many  sweethearts  as  you’d 
count  on  both  your  hands, 

!And  for  myself  there ’s  not  a thumb  or  little 
finger  stands. 

0,  you  ’re  the  flower  of  womankind,  in  country 
or  in  town ; 

The  higher  I exalt  you  the  lower  I’m  cast  down. 

If  some  great  Lord  should  come  this  way  and 
see  your  beauty  bright, 

And  you  to  be  his  lady,  I ’d  own  it  was  but 
right. 

O,  might  we  live  together  in  lofty  palace 
hall 

Where  joyful  music  rises,  and  where  scarlet 
curtains  fall ! 

0,  might  we  live  together  in  a cottage  mean 
and  small, 

With  sods  of  grass  the  only  roof,  and  mud 
the  only  wall ! 

0,  lovely  Mary  Donnelly,  your  beauty’s  my 
distress — • 

It’s  far  too  beauteous  to  be  mine,  but  I’ll 
never  wish  it  less ; 

The  proudest  place  would  fit  your  face,  and 
I am  poor  and  low, 

But  blessings  be  about  you,  dear,  wherever 
you  may  go ! 

William  Allingham. 


SONGS. 


271 


AN  IRISH  MELODY. 

“Ah,  sweet  Kitty  Neil!  rise  up  from  your 
wheel — 

Your  neat  little  foot  will  be  weary  from 
spinning ; 

Come,  trip  down  with  me  to  the  sycamore 
tree; 

Half  the  parish  is  there,  and  the  dance  is 
beginning. 

The  sun  is  gone  down ; hut  the  full  harvest 
moon 

Shines  sweetly  and  cool  on  the  dew- whit- 
ened valley ; 

While  all  the  air  rings  with  the  soft,  loving 
things 

Each  little  bird  sings  in  the  green  shaded 
alley.” 

With  a blush  and  a smile,  Kitty  rose  up  the 
while, 

Her  eye  in  the  glass,  as  she  hound  her 
hair,  glancing ; 

’Tis  hard  to  refuse  when  a young  lover 
sues, 

So  she  could  n’t  but  choose  to — go  off  to 
the  dancing. 

And  now  on  the  green  the  glad  groups  are 
seen — 

Each  gay -hearted  lad  with  the  lass  of  his 
choosing ; 

And  Pat,  without  fail,  leads  out  sweet  Kitty 
Neil— 

Somehow,  when  he  asked,  she  ne’er  thought 
of  refusing. 

Now  Felix  Magee  puts  his  pipes  to  his 
knee, 

• And,  with  flourish  so  free,  sets  each  couple 
in  motion ; 

With  a cheer  and  a bound,  the  lads  patter 
the  ground — 

The  maids  move  around  just  like  swans  on 
the  ocean. 

Cheeks  bright  as  the  rose — feet  light  as  the 
doe’s — 

Now  cozily  retiring,  now  boldly  advanc- 
ing; 


Search  the  world  all  round  from  the  sky  to 
the  ground, 

No  such  sight  can  be  found  as  an  Irish 
lass  dancing ! 

Sweet  Kate!  who  could  view  your  bright 
eyes  of  deep  blue, 

Beaming  humidiy  through  their  dark  lashes 
so  mildly — 

Your  fair-turned  arm,  heaving  breast,  round- 
ed form — 

Nor  feel  his  heart  warm,  and  his  pulses 
throb  wildly  ? 

Poor  Pat  feels  his  heart,  as  he  gazes,  de- 
part, 

Subdued  by  the  smart  of  such  painful  yet 
sweet  love ; 

The  sight  leaves  his  eye  as  he  cries  with  a 
sigh, 

“ Dance  light,  for  my  heart  it  lies  under 
your  feet , lore  ! ” 

Denis  Florence  M’Caethy. 


WERE  I BUT  HIS  OWN  WIFE. 

Were  I but  his  own  wife,  to  guard  and  to 
guide  him, 

’Tis  little  of  sorrow  should  fall  on  my 
dear ; 

I ’d  chant  my  low  love  verses,  stealing  beside 
him, 

So  faint  and  so  tender  his  heart  would  but 
hear; 

I ’d  pull  the  wild  blossoms  from  valley  and 
highland ; 

And  there  at  his  feet  I would  lay  them  all 
down ; 

I ’d  sing  him  the  songs  of  our  poor  stricken 
island, 

Till  his  heart  was  on  fire  with  a love  like 
my  own. 

There ’s  a rose  by  his  dwelling — I ’d  tend  the 
lone  treasure, 

That  he  might  have  flowers  when  the 
summer  would  come ; 

There ’s  a harp  in  his  hall — I would  wake  its 
sweet  measure, 


212 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


For  lie  must  have  music  to  brighten  his 
home. 

Were  I but  his  own  wife,  to  guide  and  to 
guard  him, 

’Tis  little  of  sorrow  should  fall  on  my 
dear ; 

For  every  kind  glance  my  whole  life  would 
award  him — 

In  sickness  I ’d  soothe  and  in  sadness  I ’d 
cheer. 

My  heart  is  a fount  welling  upward  for 
ever — 

When  I think  of  my  true  love,  by  night 
or  by  day, 

That  heart  keeps  its  faith  like  a fast-flowing 
river 

Which  gushes  for  ever  and  sings  on  its 
way. 

I have  thoughts  full  of  peace  for  his  soul  to 
repose  in, 

Were  I but  his  own  wife,  to  win  and  to 
woo — 

0,  sweet,  if  the  night  of  misfortune  were 
closing, 

To  rise  like  the  morning  star,  darling,  for 
you! 

Maby  Downing. 


SONG. 

Love  me  if  I live ! 

Love  me  if  I die ! 

What  to  me  is  life  or  death, 

So  that  thou  be  nigh  ? 

Once  I loved  thee  rich, 

Slow  I love  thee  poor ; 

Ah ! what  is  there  I could  not 
For  thy  sake  endure  ? 

Kiss  me  for  my  love ! 

Pay  me  for  my  pain ! 

Come ! and  murmur  in  my  ear 
How  thou  lov’st  again ! 

Babby  Cobnwall. 


THE  WELCOME. 

i. 

Come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morning — 
Come  when  you  ’re  looked  for,  or  come  with- 
out warning ; 

Kisses  and  welcome  you  ’ll  find  here  before 

you, 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more  I ’ll 
adore  you ! 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 
plighted ; 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 
blighted ; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 
than  ever, 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  “True  lovers 
don’t  sever ! ” 

n. 

I ’ll  pull  you  sweet  flowers,  to  wear  if  you 
choose  them ! 

Or,  after  you ’ve  kissed  them,  they  ’ll  lie  on 
my  bosom ; 

I ’ll  fetch  from  the  mountain  its  breeze  to  in- 
spire you ; 

I ’ll  fetch  from  my  fancy  a tale  that  won’t 
tire  you. 

O ! your  step ’s  like  the  rain  to  the  summer- 
vexed  farmer, 

Or  sabre  and  shield  to  a knight  without 
armor ; 

I ’ll  sing  you  sweet  songs  till  the  stars  rise 
above  me, 

Then,  wandering,  I ’ll  wish  you,  in  silence, 
to  love  me. 

hi.  . 

We  ’ll  look  through  the  trees  at  the  cliff  and 
the  eyrie ; 

We’ll  tread  round  the  rath  on  the  track  of 
the  fairy ; 

We  ’ll  look  on  the  stars,  and  we  ’ll  list  to  the 
river, 

Till  you  ask  of  your  darling  what  gift  you 
can  give  her — 

O!  she’ll  whisper  you — “Love,  as  un- 
changeably beaming, 

And  trust,  when  in  secret,  most  tunefully 
•streaming; 

A 


SONGS.  213 

Till  the  starlight  of  heaven  above  us  shall 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 

quiver, 

And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake ; 

As  our  souls  flow  in  one  down  Eternity’s 

So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 

river. 

Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

IV. 

So  come  in  the  evening,  or  come  in  the  morn- 

ing; 

THE  SHEPHERD’S  IDYL. 

Come  when  you  ’re  looked  for,  or  come  with- 

out  warning ; 

Come  down,  0 maid,  from  yonder  moun- 

Kisses and  welcome  you  ’ll  find  here  before 

tain  height ! 

you, 

What  pleasure  lives  in  height,  (the  shepherd 

And  the  oftener  you  come  here  the  more 

sang,) 

I ’ll  adore  you ! 

In  height  and  cold,  the  splendor  of  the  hills  ? 

Light  is  my  heart  since  the  day  we  were 

But  cease  to  move  so  near  the  Heavens,  and 

plighted ; 

cease 

Red  is  my  cheek  that  they  told  me  was 

To  glide  a sunbeam  by  the  blasted  pine, 

blighted ; 

To  sit  a star  upon  the  sparkling  spire ; 

The  green  of  the  trees  looks  far  greener 

And  come ! for  Love  is  of  the  valley ; come, 

than  ever, 

For  Love  is  of  the  valley — come  thou  down 

And  the  linnets  are  singing,  “ True  lovers 

And  find  him ; by  the  happy  threshold  he, 

do  n’t  sever ! ” 

Or  hand  in  hand  with  Plenty  in  the  maize, 

Thomas  Dayis. 

Or  red  with  spirted  purple  of  the  vats, 

Or  foxlike  in  the  vine ; nor  cares  to  walk 
With  Death  and  Morning  on  the  Silver  Horns, 
Nor  wilt  thou  snare  him  in  the  white  ravine, 
Nor  find  him  dropt  upon  the  firths  of  ice, 
That  huddling  slant  in  furrow-cloven  falls 

NOW  SLEEPS  THE  CRIMSON  PETAL. 

To  roll  the  torrent  out  of  dusky  doors. 

But  follow ! let  the  torrent  dance  thee  down 
To  find  him  in  the  valley ; let  the  wild, 

Now  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the 

Lean-headed  eagles  yelp  alone,  and  leave 

white ; 

The  monstrous  ledges  there  to  slope,  and 

Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk ; 

spill 

Nor  winks  the  gold-fin  in  the  porphyry 

Their  thousand  wreaths  of  dangling  water- 

font  ; 

smoke, 

The  fire-fly  wakens ; waken  thou  with  me. 

That  like  a broken  purpose  waste  in  air ; 

So  waste  not  thou;  but  come!  for  all  the 

Now  droops  the  milk-white  peacock  like  a 
ghost, 

And  like  a ghost  she  glimmers  on  to  me. 

vales 

Await  thee ; azure  pillars  of  the  hearth 

Arise  to  thee ; the  children  call,  and  I, 

Thy  shepherd,  pipe;  and  sweet  is  every  sound, 
Sweeter  thy  voice,  but  every  sound  is  sweet : 

Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the 

Myriads  of  riv’lets  hurrying  through  the 

stars, 

lawn, 

And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

The  moan  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms, 
And  murmuring  of  innumerable  bees. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

leaves 

A shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. i 
18 

9. 

274 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


COME  INTO  THE  GARDEN,  MAUD. 

Come  into  the  garden,  Mand — 

For  the  black  hat,  night,  has  flown! 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

I am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 

And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 
On  a bed  of  daffodil  sky, 

To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 
To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 
The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 

All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirred 
To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune — 

Till  a silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 
And  a hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

1 said  to  the  lily,  “ There  is  but  one 
With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.” 

Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 
And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 

Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 
The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I said  to  the  rose,  “ The  brief  night  goes 
In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 

O young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 
For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ! 

But  mine,  but  mine,”  so  I sware  to  the  rose, 
“For  ever  and  ever,  mine!” 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my 
blood, 

As  the  music  clashed  in  the  hall ; 

And  long  by  the  garden  lake  I stood, 

For  I heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to 
the  wood — 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all — 


From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  sc 
sweet 

That  whenever  a March-wind  sighs, 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes — 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet, 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 
One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 

The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 
As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 

But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your 
sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 

The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake — 

They  sighed  for  the  dawn  and  thee. 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither ! the  dances  are  done ; 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with 
curls, 

To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a splendid  tear 
From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 

She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ! 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate  ! 

The  red  rose  cries,  “She  is  near,  she  is 
near ; ” 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  “ She  is  late ; ” 
The  larkspur  listens,  “ I hear,  I hear ; ” 
And  the  lily  whispers,  “I  wait.” 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ! 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a tread, 

My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed; 

My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I lain  for  a century  dead — 

Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SONGS. 


275 


SUMMER  DAYS. 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 

We  walked  together  in  the  wood  : 

Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong ; 
Sweet  flutterings  were  there  in  our  blood, 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came ; 

We  gathered  flowers,  and  wove  us  crowns ; 
We  walked  mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 

Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs ; 

And  always  wished  our  life  the  same. 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 

We  leaped  the  hedgerow,  crossed  the  brook; 
And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 

Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 

With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon ; 

And,  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze, 

We  feasted,  many  a gorgeous  June, 

While  larks  were  singing  o’er  the  leas. 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 

On  dainty  chicken,  snow-white  bread, 

We  feasted,  with  no  grace  but  song. 

We  plucked  wild  strawb’ries,  ripe  and  red, 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not — 

For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then ; 

We  found  a heaven  in  every  spot ; 

Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men ; 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 

Alone  I wander,  muse  alone  ; 

I see  her  not ; but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 

In  Summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I wander  in  the  wood ; 

But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs  ; 

And  half  I see,  so  glad  and  good, 

The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 

That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 


In  Summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 

I love  her  as  we  loved  of  old ; 

My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong; 

For  love  brings  back  those  hours  of  gold, 
In  Summer,  when  the  days  are  long. 

Anonymous. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 

Who  many  a glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened ; — such  a blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 

Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell — 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 

Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim ; — 

Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure,  I said,  heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 

Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

Thomas  Hood. 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

Although  I enter  not, 

Yet  round  about  the  spot 
Ofttimes  I hover ; 

And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I wait, 
Expectant  of  her. 

The  minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city’s  rout, 

And  noise  and  humming ; 


276 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


They ’ve  hushed  the  minster  bell : 
The  organ  ’gins  to  swell ; 

She ’s  coming,  she ’s  coming ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 

Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 

With  modest  eyes  downcast ; 

She  comes — she ’s  here,  she ’s  past ! 
May  Heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint ! 

Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 
Meekly  and  duly ; 

I will  not  enter  there, 

To  sully  your  pure  prayer 
With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Bound  the  forbidden  place. 

Lingering  a minute, 

Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait, 

And  see,  through  Heaven’s  gate, 
Angels  within  it. 

William  Makepeace  Thackekay. 


SHE  IS  A MAID  OF  ARTLESS  GRACE. 

She  is  a maid  of  artless  grace, 

Gentle  in  form,  and  fair  of  face. 

Tell  me,  thou  ancient  mariner, 

That  sailest  on  the  sea, 

If  ship,  or  sail,  or  evening  star, 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 

Tell  me,  thou  gallant  cavalier, 

Whose  shining  arms  I see, 

If  steed,  or  sword,  or  battle-field, 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 

Tell  me,  thou  swain,  that  guard’st  thy 
flock 

Beneath  the  shadowy  tree, 

If  flock,  or  vale,  or  mountain-ridge, 

Be  half  so  fair  as  she ! 

Gil  Vicente.  (Portuguese.) 
Translation  of  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 


SERENADE. 

i. 

Ah,  sweet,  thou  little  knowest  how 
I wake  and  passionate  watches  keep ; 
And  yet,  while  I address  thee  now, 
Methinks  thou  smilest  in  thy  sleep. 

’T  is  sweet  enough  to  make  me  weep, 
That  tender  thought  of  love  and  thee, 
That  while  the  world  is  hushed  so  deep, 
Thy  soul ’s  perhaps  awake  to  me ! 

ii. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  sweet  bride  of  sleep ! 

With  golden  visions  for  thy  dower, 
While  I this  midnight  vigil  keep, 

And  bless  thee  in  thy  silent  bower ; 

To  me ’t  is  sweeter  than  the  power 
Of  sleep,  and  fairy  dreams  unfurled, 
That  I alone,  at  this  still  hour, 

In  patient  love  outwatch  the  world. 

Thomas  Hood. 


SERENADE. 

Look  out  upon  the  stars,  my  love, 

And  shame  them  with  thine  eyes, 

On  which,  than  on  the  lights  above, 

There  hang  more  destinies. 

Night’s  beauty  is  the  harmony 
Of  blending  shades  and  light ; 

Then,  lady,  up, — look  out,  and  be 
A sister  to  the  night ! — 

Sleep  not ! — thine  image  wakes  for  aye 
Within  my  watching  breast ; 

Sleep  not ! — from  her  soft  sleep  should  fly, 
Who  robs  all  hearts  of  rest. 

Nay,  lady,  from  thy  slumbers  break, 

And  make  this  darkness  gay, 

With  looks  whose  brightness  well  might 
make 

Of  darker  nights  a day. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney. 


SONGS. 


MY  LOVE. 

i. 

Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  sonl  is  dear ; 

Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star ; 

And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 

n. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 

Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 

God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 

And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

in. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 

Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair ; 

No  simplest  duty  is  forgot ; 

Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

iv. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise ; 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 

v. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things ; 

And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

VI. 

Blessing  she  is ; God  made  her  so ; 

And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow ; 

Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

VII. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize  ; 

Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne’er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 


2 11 


VIII. 

She  is  a woman — one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 

Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 

IX. 

I love  her  with  a love  as  still 
As  a broad  river’s  peaceful  might, 

Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will, 

And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 


And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie ; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green— 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


THE  MILLER’S  DAUGHTER. 

It  is  the  miller’s  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 
That  I would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  at  her  ear ; 

For,  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I ’d  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I would  be  the  girdle 
About  her  dainty,  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest ; 

And  I should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I ’d  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I would  be  the  necklace, 

And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 
Upon  her  balmy  bosom 
With  her  laughter  or  her  sighs ; 

And  I would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I scarce  should  be  unclasped  at  night. 

Aleeed  Tennyson. 


278  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

THE  BROOK-SIDE. 

1 ’T  is  when  he  sings  on  some  lone  shore 
Where  Echo’s  vocal  spirits  throng, 

I waxdebed  by  the  brook-side, 

Whose  airy  voices,  o’er  and  o’er, 

On  still  and  moonlight  lake  prolong 

I wandered  by  the  mill- ; 

One  dear,  loved,  thrilling  name. 

I could  not  bear  the  brook  flow — 

Ahoxymous. 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 
No  chirp  of  any  bird,  . 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I heard. 
I sat  beneath  the  elm-tree ; 

Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing, 
Bright  suns  without  a spot ; 

I watched  the  long,  long  shade. 

But  thou  art  no  such  perfect  thing . 

And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

Rejoice  that  thou  art  not! 

I did  not  feel  afraid ; 

For  I listened  for  a footfall, 

Heed  not  though  none  should  call  thee  fair 

I listened  for  a word — 

So,  Mary,  let  it  be, 

But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

If  naught  in  loveliness  compare 

Was  all  the  sound  I heard. 

With  what  thou  art  to  me. 

He  came  not, — no,  he  came  not — 

True  beauty  dwells  in  deep  retreats, 

The  night  came  on  alone — 

Whose  veil  is  unremoved 

The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Till  heart  with  heart  in  concord  beats, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne ; 

And  the  lover  is  beloved. 

The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 

William  Woedswoeth. 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

BALLAD. 

When  something  stood  behind ; 
A hand  was  on  my  shoulder — 

i. 

I knew  its  touch  was  kind : 

It  was  not  in  the  winter 

It  drew  me  nearer — nearer, — 

Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, 

It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 

For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed ! 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

Bichaed  Moxckton  MlL>'E8. 

n. 

4 

That  churlish  season  never  frowned 
On  early  lovers  yet ! 

0!  TELL  ME,  LOVE,  THE  DEAREST 

0,  no — the  world  was  newly  crowned 
With  flowers  when  first  we  met. 

HOUR. 

0 ! tell  me,  love,  the  dearest  hour 

in. 

’T  was  twilight,  and  I bade  you  go — 

The  parted,  anxious  lover  knows, — 

But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 

When  passion,  with  enchanter’s  power, 

It  was  the  time  of  roses, — 

Across  his  faithful  memory  throws 

We  plucked  them  as  we  passed ! 

Its  softest,  brightest  flame. 

Thomas  Hood. 

SONGS. 


27S 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Come,  thou  best  of  painters, 

Prince  of  the  Rhodian  art; 

Paint,  thou  best  of  painters, 

The  mistress  of  my  heart — 
Though  absent — from  the  picture 
Which  I shall  now  impart. 

First  paint  for  me  her  ringlets 
Of  dark  and  glossy  hue, 

And  fragrant  odors  breathing — 

If  this  thine  art  can  do. 

Paint  me  an  ivory  forehead 
That  crowns  a perfect  cheek, 
And  rises  under  ringlets 
Dark-colored,  soft,  and  sleek. 

The  space  between  the  eyebrows 
Nor  mingle  nor  dispart, 

But  blend  them  imperceptibly 
And  true  will  be  thy  art. 

From  under  black-eye  fringes 
Let  sunny  flashes  play — 
Cythera’s  swimming  glances, 
Minerva’s  azure  ray. 

With  milk  commingle  roses 
To  paint  a nose  and  cheeks — 

A lip  like  bland  Persuasion’s— 

A lip  that  kissing  seeks. 

Within  the  chin  luxurious 
Let  all  the  graces  fair, 

Round  neck  of  alabaster, 

Be  ever  flitting  there. 

And  now  in  robes  invest  her 
Of  palest  purple  dyes, 

Betraying  fair  proportions 
To  our  delighted  eyes. 

Cease,  cease,  I see.  before  me 
The  picture  of  my  choice ! 

And  quickly  wilt  thou  give  me — 
The  music  of  thy  voice. 

Anacreon.  (Greek.) 

Translation  of  William  Hay. 


A HEALTH. 

I fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone, 

A woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon ; 

To  whom  the  better  elements 
And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

’T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven.  % 

Her  every  tone  is  music’s  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 

And  something  more  than  melody 
Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 

The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 
Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours ; 

Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers  ; 

And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns. — 
The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 
A picture  on  the  brain, 

And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 
A sound  must  long  remain ; 

But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 

When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 
Will  not  be  life’s,  but  hers. 

I fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 
Of  loveliness  alone, 

A woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 
The  seeming  paragon — 

Her  health ! and  would  on  earth  there 
stood 

Some  more  of  such  a frame, 

That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a name. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney. 


280 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


LOYE  SONG. 

Sweet  in  her  green  dell  the  flower  of  beauty 
slumbers, 

Lulled  by  the  faint  breezes  sighing  through 
her  hair ! 

Sleeps  she,  and  hears  not  the  melancholy 
numbers 

Breathed  to  my  sad  lute  amid  the  lonely  air ! 

Down  from  the  high  cliffs  the  rivulet  is 
teeming 

To  wind  round  the  willow  banks  that  lure 
him  from  above ; 

O that,  in  tears,  from  my  rocky  prison 
streaming, 

I,  too,  could  glide  to  the  bower  of  my  love ! 

Ah,  where  the  woodbines,  with  sleepy  arms, 
have  wound  her, 

Opes  she  her  eyelids  at  the  dream  of  my  lay, 

Listening,  like  the  dove,  while  the  fountains 
echo  round  her, 

To  her  lost  mate’s  call  in  the  forests  far  away ! 

Come,  then,  my  bird!  for  the  peace  thou 
ever  bearest, 

Still  heaven’s  messenger  of  comfort  to  me — 

Come ! this  fond  bosom,  my  faithfulest,  my 
fairest, 

Bleeds  with  its  death-wound — but  deeper 
yet  for  thee ! 

Geobge  Dabley. 


SYLVIA. 

I ’ve  taught  thee  Love’s  sweet  lesson  o’er — 
A task  that  is  not  learned  with  tears  : 

Was  Sylvia  e’er  so  blest  before 
In  her  wild,  solitary  years  ? 

Then  what  does  he  deserve,  the  youth 
Who  made  her  con  so  dear  a truth  ? 

Till  now  in  silent  vales  to  roam, 

Singing  vain  songs  to  heedless  flowers, 

Or  watch  the  dashing  billows  foam, 

Amid  thy  lonely  myrtle  bowers — 

To  weave  light  crowns  of  various  hue — 
Were  all  the  joys  thy  bosom  knew. 


The  wild  bird,  though  most  musical, 

Could  not  to  thy  sweet  plaint  reply ; 

The  streamlet,  and  the  waterfall, 

Could  only  weep  when  thou  didst  sigh ! 
Thou  couldst  not  change  one  dulcet  word 
Either  with  billow,  or  with  bird. 

For  leaves  and  flowers,  but  these  alone, 
Winds  have  a soft,  discoursing  way ; 
Heaven’s  starry  talk  is  all  its  own, — 

It  dies  in  thunder  far  away. 

E’en  when  thou  wouldst  the  moon  be- 
guile 

To  speak, — she  only  deigns  to  smile ! 

Now,  birds  and  winds,  be  churlish  still ! 

Ye  waters,  keep  your  sullen  roar! 

Stars,  be  as  distant  as  ye  will, — 

Sylvia  need  court  ye  now  no  more : 

In  Love  there  is  society 

She  never  yet  could  find  with  ye ! 

Geoege  Dabley. 


ROSALIE. 

0,  pottb  upon  my  soul  again 
That  sad,  unearthly  strain, 

That  seems  from  other  worlds  to  plain ; 
Thus  falling,  falling  from  afar, 

As  if  some  melancholy  star 
Had  mingled  with  her  light  her  sighs, 
And  dropped  them  from  the  skies. 

No — never  came  from  aught  below 
This  melody  of  woe, 

That  makes  my  heart  to  overflow 
As  from  a thousand  gushing  springs 
Unknown  before ; that  with  it  brings 
This  nameless  light — if  light  it  be — 
That  veils  the  world  I see. 

For  all  I see  around  me  wears 
The  hue  of  other  spheres ; 

And  something  blent  of  smiles  and  tears 
Comes  from  the  very  air  I breathe. 

O,  nothing,  sure,  the  stars  beneath, 

Can  mould  a sadness  like  to  this — 

So  like  angelic  bliss. 


SONGS. 


281 


So,  at  that  dreamy  hour  of  day, 

When  the  last  lingering  ray 
Stops  on  the  highest  cloud  to  play — 

So  thought  the  gentle  Rosalie 
As  on  her  maiden  revery 
First  fell  the  strain  of  him  who  stole 
In  music  to  her  soul. 

Washington  Allston. 


SONG. 

i. 

Sing  the  old  song,  amid  the  sounds  dispers- 
ing 

That  burden  treasured  in  your  hearts  too 
long; 

Sing  it  with  voice  low-breathed,  but 
never  name  her : 

She  will  not  hear  you,  in  her  turrets  nursing 
High  thoughts,  too  high  to  mate  with  mor- 
tal song — 

Bend  o’er  her,  gentle  Heaven,  but  do 
not  claim  her ! 

ii. 

In  twilight  caves,  and  secret  lonelinesses, 

She  shades  the  bloom  of  her  unearthly 
days ; — 

The  forest  winds  alone  approach  to  woo 
her. 

Far  off  we  catch  the  dark  gleam  of  her 
tresses ; 

And  wild  birds  haunt  the  wood-walks 
where  she  strays, 

Intelligible  music  warbling  to  her. 

in. 

That  spirit  charged  to  follow  and  defend  her, 
He  also,  doubtless,  suffers  this  love-pain ; 

And  she  perhaps  is  sad,  hearing  his 
sighing. 

And  yet  that  face  is  not  so  sad  as  tender ; 
Like  some  sweet  singer’s,  when  her  sweet- 
est strain 

From  the  heaved  heart  is  gradually 
dying ! 

Aubrey  de  Vkke. 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  ENDYMION. 

Lone  upon  a mountain,  the  pine-trees  wailing 
round  him, 

Lone  upon  a mountain  the  Grecian  youth 
is  laid ; 

Sleep,  mystic  sleep,  for  many  a year  has 
bound  him, 

Yet  his  beauty,  like  a statue’s,  pale  and 
fair,  is  undecayed. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

When  will  he  awaken?  a loud  voice  hath 
been  crying 

Night  after  night,  and  the  cry  has  been  in 
vain ; 

Winds,  woods,  and  waves  found  echoes  for 
replying, 

But  the  tones  of  the  beloved  ones  were 
never  heard  again. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asked  the  midnight’s  silver  queen. 

Never  mortal  eye  has  looked  upon  his  sleep- 
ing; 

Parents,  kindred,  comrades,  have  mourned 
for  him  as  dead ; 

By  day  the  gathered  clouds  have  had  him  in 
their  keeping, 

And  at  night  the  solemn  shadows  round 
his  rest  are  shed. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Long  has  been  the  cry  of  faithful  Love’s  im- 
ploring ; 

Long  has  Hope  been  watching  with  soft 
eyes  fixed  above ; 

When  will  the  Fates,  the  life  of  life  restoring, 

Own  themselves  vanquished  by  much- 
enduring  Love  ? 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asks  the  midnight’s  weary  queen. 

Beautiful  the  sleep  that  she  has  watched  un- 
tiring, 

Lighted  up  with  visions  from  yonder  ra- 
diant sky, 

Full  of  an  immortal’s  glorious  inspiring, 

Softened  by  a woman’s  meek  and  loving  sigh. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 


282 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


He  has  been  dreaming  of  old  heroic  stories, 

And  the  Poet’s  world  has  entered  in  his 
soul ; 

He  has  grown  conscious  of  life’s  ancestral 
glories, 

When  sages  and  when  kings  first  upheld  the 
mind’s  control. 

When  will  he  awaken  ? 

Asks  the  midnight’s  stately  queen. 

Lo,  the  appointed  midnight ! the  present  hour 
is  fated ! 

It  is  Endymion’s  planet  that  rises  on  the 
air; 

How  long,  how  tenderly  his  goddess  love  has 
waited, 

Waited  with  a love  too  mighty  for  despair ! 

Soon  he  will  awaken. 

Soft  amid  the  pines  is  a sound  as  if  of  sing- 
ing, 

Tones  that  seem  the  lute’s  from  the  breath- 
ing flowers  depart ; 

Hot  a wind  that  wanders  o’er  Mount  Latmos 
hut  is  bringing 

Music  that  is  murmured  from  Nature’s  in- 
most heart. 

Soon  he  will  awaken 

To  his  and  midnight’s  queen ! 

Lovely  is  the  green  earth, — she  knows  the 
hour  is  holy ; 

Starry  are  the  heavens,  lit  with  eternal 

joy; 

Light  like  their  own  is  dawning  sweet  and 
slowly 

O’er  the  fair  and  sculptured  forehead  of 
that  yet  dreaming  hoy. 

Soon  he  will  awaken ! 

Red  as  the  red  rose  towards  the  morning 
turning, 

Warms  the  youth’s  lip  to  the  watcher’s 
near  his  own ; 

While  the  dark  eyes  open,  bright,  intense, 
and  burning 

With  a life  more  glorious  than,  ere  they 
closed,  was  known. 

Yes,  he  has  awakened 

For  the  midnight’s  happy  queen ! 


What  is  this  old  history,  but  a lesson  given, 

How  true  love  still  conquers  by  the  deep 
strength  of  truth — 

How  all  the  impulses,  whose  native  home  is 
heaven, 

Sanctify  the  visions  ot  hope,  and  faith,  and 
youth  ? 

’T  is  for  such  they  waken ! 

When  every  worldly  thought  is  utterly  for- 
saken, 

Comes  the  starry  midnight,  felt  by  life’s 
gifted  few ; 

Then  will  the  spirit  from  its  earthly  sleep 
awaken 

To  a being  more  intense,  more  spiritual, 
and  true. 

So  doth  the  soul  awaken, 

Like  that  youth  to  night’s  fair  queen ! 

LiETiTiA  Elizabeth  Maclean. 


SONG. 

Day,  in  melting  purple  dying ; 
Blossoms,  all  around  me  sighing ; 
Fragrance,  from  the  lilies  straying ; 
Zephyr,  with  my  ringlets  playing.; 

Ye  but  waken  my  distress ; 

I am  sick  of  loneliness ! 

Thou,  to  whom  I love  to  hearken, 
Come,  ere  night  around  me  darken ; 
Though  thy  softness  but  deceive  me, 
Say  thou  ’rt  true,  and  I ’ll  believe  thee ; 
Veil,  if  ill,  thy  soul’s  intent, 

Let  me  think  it  innocent ! 

Save  thy  toiling,  spare  thy  treasure ; 
All  I ask  is  friendship’s  pleasure ; 

Let  the  shining  ore  lie  darkling — 

Bring  no  gem  in  lustre  sparkling  ; 

Gifts  and  gold  are  naught  to  me 
I would  only  look  on  thee ! 

Tell  to  thee  the  high-wrought  feeling, 
Ecstasy  but  in  revealing ; 

Paint  to  thee  the  deep  sensation, 
Rapture  in  participation ; 

Yet  but  torture,  if  comprest 
In  a lone,  unfriended  breast. 


j 


SONGS. 


283 


Absent  still ! Ah ! come  and  bless  me ! 
Lot  these  eyes  again  caress  thee. 

Once  in  caution,  I could  fly  thee ; 

Now,  I nothing  could  deny  thee. 

In  a look  if  death  there  be, 
Come,  and  I will  gaze  on  thee ! 

Mabia  Bbooks. 


ABSENCE. 

What  shall  I do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I see  thy  face  ? 
How  shall  I charm  the  interval  that  lowers 
Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of 
grace  ? 

Shall  I in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense — 
Weary  with  longing?  Shall  I flee  away 
Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God’s  great  gift  of 
time? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  with- 
in, 

Leave  and  forget  life’s  purposes  sublime  ? 

O,  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I contrive 
To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back 
more  near  ? 

How  may  I teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  ? 

I ’ll  tell  thee ; for  thy  sake  I will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told 
While  thou,  beloved  one!  art  far  from 
me. 

For  thee  I will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 
All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy 
strains ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their 
minutes  pains. 


I will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A noble  task-time ; and  will  therein  strive 
To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o’ertake 
More  good  than  I have  won  since  yet  I live. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 
A thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be 
thine ; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 

Feances  Anne  Kemble. 


THE  GEOOMSMAN  TO  HIS  MISTRESS 

i. 

Every  wedding,  says  the  proverb, 

Makes  another,  soon  or  late ; 

Never  yet  was  any  marriage 
Entered  in  the  book  of  Fate, 

But  the  names  were  also  written 
Of  the  patient  pair  that  wait. 

ii. 

Blessings  then  upon  the  morning 
When  my  friend,  with  fondest  look, 

By  the  solemn  rites’  permission, 

To  himself  his  mistress  took, 

And  the  Destinies  recorded 
Other  two  within  their  book. 

hi. 

While  the  priest  fulfilled  his  office, 

Still  the  ground  the  lovers  eyed, 

And  the  parents  and  the  kinsmen 
Aimed  their  glances  at  the  bride ; 

But  the  groomsmen  eyed  the  virgins 
Who  were  waiting  at  hor  side. 

IV. 

Three  there  were  that  stood  beside  her ; 
One  was  dark,  and  one  was  fair ; 

But  nor  fair  nor  dark  the  other, 

Save  her  Arab  eyes  and  hair ; 

Neither  dark  nor  fair  I call  her, 

Yet  she  was  the  fairest  there. 


284 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


Y. 

While  her  groomsman — shall  I own  it  ? 

Yes,  to  thee,  and  only  thee — 

Gazed  upon  this  dark-eyed  maiden 
Who  was  fairest  of  the  three, 

Thus  he  thought : “ How  blest  the  bridal 
Where  the  bride  were  such  as  she ! ” 

YI. 

Then  I mused  upon  the  adage, 

Till  my  wisdom  was  perplexed, 

And  I wondered,  as  the  churchman 
Dwelt  upon  his  holy  text, 

Which  of  all  who  heard  his  lesson 
Should  require  the  service  next. 

VII. 

Whose  will  be  the  next  occasion 
For  the  flowers,  the  feast,  the  wine  ? 
Thine,  perchance,  my  dearest  lady ; 

Or,  who  knows  ? — it  may  be  mine : 
What  if ’t  were — forgive  the  fancy — 
What  if ’t  were — both  mine  and  thine  ? 

Thomas  "William  P arson's. 


SONG. 

How  delicious  is  the  winning 
Of  a kiss  at  Love’s  beginning, 

When  two  mutual  hearts  are  sighing 
For  the  knot  there ’s  no  untying ! 

Yet,  remember,  ’midst  your  wooing, 

Love  has  bliss,  but  Love  has  rueing ; 

Other  smiles  may  make  you  fickle ; 

Tears  for  other  charms  may  trickle. 

Love  he  comes,  and  Love  he  tarries, 

Just  as  fate  or  fancy  carries ; 

Longest  stays  when  sorest  chidden ; 
Laughs  and  flies  when  pressed  and  bidden. 

Bind  the  sea  to  slumber  stilly ; 

Bind  its  odor  to  the  lily ; 

Bind  the  aspen  ne’er  to  quiver ; 

Then  bind  Love  to  last  for  ever ! 


THE  HUH. 

If  you  become  a nun,  dear, 

A friar  I will  be ; 

In  any  cell  you  run,  dear, 

Pray  look  behind  for  me. 

The  roses  all  turn  pale,  too ; 

The  doves  all  take  the  veil,  too ; 

The  blind  will  see  the  show : 

What ! you  become  a nun,  my  dear  ? 

I ’ll  not  believe  it,  no ! 

h. 

If  you  become  a nun,  dear, 

The  bishop  Love  will  be ; 

The  Cupids  every  one,  dear, 

Will  chant,  “We  trust  in  thee ! ” 

The  incense  will  go  sighing, 

The  candles  fall  a dying, 

The  water  turn  to  wine ; 

What ! you  go  take  the  vows,  my  dear  i 
You  may — but  they  ’ll  be  mine. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


CRABBED  AGE  AHD  YOUTH. 

Cbabbed  Age  and  Youth 
Cannot  live  together : 

Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 

Age  is  full  of  care ; 

Youth  like  summer  morn, 

Age  like  winter  weather ; 

Youth  like  Summer  brave, 

Age  like  Winter  bare. 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 

Age’s  breath  is  short ; 

Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame ; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 

Age  is  weak  and  cold ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame. 
Age,  I do  abhor  thee, 

Youth,  I do  adore  thee ; 

O,  my  love,  my  love  is  young ! 

Age,  I do  defy  thee ; 

0,  sweet  shepherd ! hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay’st  too  long. 

S HAKE  SPEARS. 


Thomas  Campbell. 


SONGS. 


285 


THE  MAIDEN’S  CHOICE. 

Genteel  in  personage, 

Conduct  and  equipage ; 

Noble  by  heritage, 

Generous  and  free ; 

Brave,  not  romantic ; 

Learned,  not  pedantic ; 

Frolic,  not  frantic — 

This  must  he  be. 

Honor  maintaining, 

Meanness  disdaining, 

Still  entertaining, 

Engaging  and  new ; 

Neat,  but  not  finical ; 

Sage,  but  not  cynical ; 

Never  tyrannical, 

But  ever  true. 

Anonymous. 


SONG. 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Pr’y  thee,  why  so  pale  ? — 

Will,  when  looking  well  can’t  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Pr’y  thee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Pr’y  thee,  why  so  mute  ? — 

Will,  when  speaking  well  can’t  win  her, 
Saying  nothing  do ’t  ? 

Pr’y  thee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame ! this  will  not  move, 
This  cannot  take  her — 

If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  Devil  take  her ! 

8ib  John  Suckling. 


THE  SHEPHERD’S  RESOLUTION. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 

Die  because  a woman ’s  fair  ? 

Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 

’ Cause  another’s  rosy  are  ? 

Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 

Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May — 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I how  fair  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
’Cause  I see  a woman  kind? 

Or  a well-disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a lovely  feature  ? 

Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
The  turtle-dove  or  pelican — 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I how  kind  she  be  ? 

Shall  a woman’s  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 

Or,  her  well-deservings  known, 

Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 

Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best, 

If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 

What  care  I how  good  she  be  ? 

’Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I play  the  fool  and  die  ? 

Those  that  bear  a noble  mind 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find, 

Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
That  without  them  dare  to  woo ; 

And  unless  that  mind  I see, 

What  care  I how  great  she  be  ? 

Great,  or  good,  or  kind,  or  fair, 

I will  ne’er  the  more  despair : 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe — 

I will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 

If  she  slight  me  when  I woo, 

I can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 

For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I for  whom  she  be? 

George  Wither. 


286 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


FLY  NOT  YET. 

Fly  not  yet — ’t  is  just  the  hour 
When  pleasure,  like  the  midnight  flower, 
That  scorns  the  eye  of  vulgar  light, 
Begins  to  bloom  for  sons  of  night, 

And  maids  who  love  the  moon ! 

’T  was  but  to  bless  these  hours  of  shade 
That  beauty  and  the  moon  were  made ; 
’T  is  then  their  soft  attractions  glowing 
Set  the  tides  and  goblets  flowing ! 

0!  stay, — O!  stay, — 

Joy  so  seldom  weaves  a chain 
Like  this  to-night,  that  O ! ’t  is  pain 
To  break  its  links  so  soon, 

Fly  not  yet ! the  fount  that  played, 

In  times  of  old,  through  Ammon’s  shade, 
Though  icy  cold  by  day  it  ran, 

Yet  still,  like  sounds  of  mirth,  began 
To  burn  when  night  was  near ; 

And  thus  should  woman’s  heart  and  looks 
At  noon  he  cold  as  winter-brooks, 

Nor  kindle  till  the  night,  returning, 
Brings  their  genial  hour  for  burning. 

O ! stay, — O ! stay, — 

When  did  morning  ever  break 
And  find  such  beaming  eyes  awake 
As  those  that  sparkle  here ! 

Thomas  Moobe. 


TO . 

Too  late  I stayed — forgive  the  crime — 
Unheeded  flew  the  hours : 

How  noiseless  falls  the  foot  of  Time 
That  only  treads  on  flowers ! 

And  who,  with  clear  account,  remarks 
The  ebbings  of  his  glass, 

When  all  its  sands  are  diamond  sparks, 
That  dazzle  as  they  pass  ? 

Ah  ! who  to  sober  measurement 
Time’s  happy  swiftness  brings, 

When  birds  of  paradise  have  lent 
Their  plumage  to  his  wings  ? 

Robeet  William  Spenceb. 


NATURA  NATURANS. 

Beside  me, — in  the  car, — she  sat ; 

She  spake  not,  no,  nor  looked  to  me. 

From  her  to  me,  from  me  to  her, 

What  passed  so  subtly,  stealthily  ? 

As  rose  to  rose,  that  by  it  blows, 

Its  interchanged  aroma  flings ; 

Or  wake  to  sound  of  one  sweet  note 
The  virtues  of  disparted  strings. 

Beside  me,  nought  but  this ! — but  this, 

That  influent ; as  within  me  dwelt 
Her  life ; mine  too  within  her  breast, 

•Her  brain,  her  every  limb,  she  felt. 

We  sat;  while  o’er  and  in  us,  more 
And  more,  a power  unknown  prevailed, 
Inhaling  and  inhaled, — and  still 
’T  was  one,  inhaling  or  inhaled. 

Beside  me,  nought  but  this ; and  passed — 

I passed ; and  know  not  to  this  day 
If  gold  or  jet  her  girlish  hair — 

If  black,  or  brown,  or  lucid-gray 
Her  eye’s  young  glance.  The  fickle  chance 
That  joined  us  yet  may  join  again ; 

But  I no  face  again  could  greet 
As  hers,  whose  life  was  in  me  then. 

As  unsuspecting  mere  a maid — 

As  fresh  inmaidhood’s  bloomiest  bloom — 
In  casual  second-class  did  e’er 
By  casual  youth  her  seat  assume ; 

Or  vestal,  say,  of  saintliest  clay, 

For  once  by  balmiest  airs  betrayed 
Unto  emotions  too,  too  sweet 
To  be  unlingeringly  gainsayed. 

Unowning  then,  confusing  soon 

With  dreamier  dreams  that  o’er  the  glass 
Of  shyly  ripening  woman-sense 
Reflected,  scarce  reflected,  pass — 

A wife  may  be,  a mother,  she 
In  Hymen’s  shrine  recalls  not  now 
She  first — in  hour,  ah,  not  profane ! — 

With  me  to  Hymen  learnt  to  bow. 

Ah  no ! — yet  owned  we,  fused  in  one, 

The  Power  which,  e’en  in  stones  and  earth's 
By  blind  elections  felt,  in  forms 
Organic  breeds  to  myriad  births ; 


SONGS. 


28? 


By  lichen  small  on  granite  wall 
Approved,  its  faintest,  feeblest  stir 
Slow-spreading,  strengthening  long,  at  last 
Vibrated  full  m me  and  her. 

In  me  and  her sensation  strange ! 

The  lily  grew  to  pendant  head ; 

To  vernal  airs  the  mossy  bank 

Its  sheeny  primrose  spangles  spread ; 

In  roof  o’er  roof  of  shade  sun-proof 
Did  cedar  strong  itself  outclimb ; 

And  altitude  of  aloe  proud 
Aspire  in  floreal  crown  sublime ; 

Flashed  flickering  forth  fantastic  flies ; 

Big  bees  their  burly  bodies  swung ; 

Rooks  roused  with  civic  din  the  elms ; 

And  lark  its  wild  reveille  rung  ; 

In  Libyan  dell  the  light  gazelle, 

The  leopard  lithe  in  Indian  glade, 

And  dolphin,  brightening  tropic  seas, 

In  us  were  living,  leapt  and  played ; 

Their  shells  did  slow  Crustacea  build ; 

Their  gilded  skins  did  snakes  renew  ; 
While  mightier  spines  for  loftier  kind 
Their  types  in  amplest  limbs  outgrew ; 

Yea,  close  comprest  in  human  breast, 

What  moss,  and  tree,  and  livelier  thing — 
What  Earth,  Sun,  Star,  of  force  possest, 

Lay  budding,  burgeoning  forth  for  Spring ! 

Such  sweet  preluding  sense  of  old 
Led  on  in  Eden’s  sinless  place 
The  hour  when  bodies  human  first 
Combined  the  primal  prime  embrace ; 
Such  genial  heat  the  blissful  seat 
In  man  and  woman  owned  unblamed, 
When,  naked  both,  its  garden  paths 
They  walked  unconscious,  unashamed ; 

Ere,  clouded  yet  in  mistiest  dawn, 

Above  the  horizon  dusk  and  dun, 

One  mountain  crest  with  light  had  tipped 
That  orb  that  is  the  spirit’s  sun ; 

Ere  dreamed  young  flowers  in  vernal  showers 
Of  fruit  to  rise  the  flower  above, 

Or  ever  yet  to  young  Desire 
Was  told  the  mystic  name  of  Love. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


THE  CHEAT  OF  CUPID ; 

OK,  THE  UNGENTLE  GUEST. 

One  silent  night  of  late, 

When  every  creature  rested, 

Came  one  unto  my  gate, 

And,  knocking,  me  molested. 

Who ’s  that,  said  I,  beats  there, 

And  troubles  thus  the  sleepy  ? 

Cast  off,  said  he,  all  fear, 

And  let  not  locks  thus  keep  thee. 

For  I a boy  am,  who 

By  moonless  nights  have  swerved ; 

And  all  with  showers  wet  through, 
And  e’en  with  cold  half  starved. 

I,  pitiful,  arose, 

And  soon  a taper  lighted ; 

And  did  myself  disclose 
Unto  the  lad  benighted. 

I saw  he  had  a bow, 

And  wings,  too,  which  did  shiver ; 

And,  looking  down  below, 

I spied  he  had  a quiver. 

I to  my  chimney’s  shrine 
Brought  him,  as  Love  professes, 

And  chafed  his  hands  with  mine, 

And  dryed  his  dripping  tresses. 

But  when  that  he  felt  warmed  : 

Let ’s  try  this  bow  of  ours, 

And  string,  if  they  be  harmed, 

Said  he,  with  these  late  showers. 

Forthwith  his  bow  he  bent, 

And  wedded  string  and  arrow, 

And  struck  me,  that  it  went 

Quite  through  my  heart  and  marrow. 

Then,  laughing  loud,  he  flew 
Away,  and  thus  said  flying : 

Adieu,  mine  host,  adieu ! 

I ’ll  leave  thy  heart  a-dying. 

Anacreon.  (Greek.) 

Translation  of  Robert  IIerriok. 


288 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


SONG. 

i. 

Steiye  not,  vain  lover,  to  be  fine ; 

Thy  silk ’s  the  silkworm’s,  and  not  thine ; 
Yon  lessen  to  a fly  your  mistress’  thought, 
To  think  it  may  he  in  a cobweb  caught. 
What  though  her  thin,  transparent  lawn 
Thy  heart  in  a strong  net  hath  drawn  ? 
Not  all  the  arms  the  god  of  fire  ere  made, 
Can  the  soft  bulwarks  of  naked  love  invade. 


ii. 

Be  truly  fine,  then,  and  yourself  dress 
In  her  fair  soul’s  immaculate  glass  ; 

Then  by  reflection  you  may  have  the  bliss 
Perhaps  to  see  what  a true  fineness  is ; 
When  all  your  gauderies  will  fit 
Those  only  that  are  poor  in  wit : 

She  that  a clinquant  outside  doth  adore, 
Dotes  on  a gilded  statue,  and  no  more. 

Bichabd  Lovelace. 


DECEITFULNESS  OF  LOYE. 

Go,  sit  by  the  summer  sea, 

Thou  whom  scorn  wasteth, 

And  let  thy  musing  be 
Where  the  flood  hasteth. 

Mark  how  o’er  ocean’s  breast 
Bolls  the  hoar  billow’s  crest ; 

Such  is  his  heart’s  unrest, 

Who  of  love  tasteth. 

Griev’st  thou  that  hearts  should  change  ? 

Lo ! where  life  reigneth, 

Or  the  free  sight  doth  range. 

What  long  remaineth  ? 

Spring  with  her  flowers  doth  die ; 

Fast  fades  the  gilded  sky ; 

And  the  full  moon  on  high 
Ceaselessly  waneth. 


Smile,  then,  ye  sage  and  wise ; 

And  if  love  sever 
Bonds  which  thy  soul  doth  prize, 

Such  does  it  ever ! 

Deep  as  the  rolling  seas, 

Soft  as  the  twilight  breeze, 

But  of  more  than  these 
Boast  could  it  never ! 

Anonymous. 


IF  I DESIKE  WITH  PLEASANT  SONGS. 

If  I desire  with  pleasant  songs 
To  throw  a merry  hour  away, 

Comes  Love  unto  me,  and  my  wrongs 
In  careful  tale  he  doth  display, 

And  asks  me  how  I stand  for  singing 
While  I my  helpless  hands  am  wringing. 

And  then  another  time,  if  I 
A noon  in  shady  bower  would  pass, 
Comes  he  with  stealthy  gestures  sly, 

And  flinging  down  upon  the  grass, 
Quoth  he  to  me : My  master  dear, 

Think  of  this  noontide  such  a year ! 

And  if  elsewhile  I lay  my  head 
On  pillow,  with  intent  to  sleep, 

Lies  Love  beside  me  on  the  bed, 

And  gives  me  ancient  words  to  keep ; 
Says  he : These  looks,  these  tokens  num- 
ber— 

May  be,  they  ’ll  help  you  to  a slumber. 

So  every  time  when  I would  yield 
An  hour  to  quiet,  comes  he  still ; 

And  hunts  up  every  sign  concealed, 

And  ev.ery  outward  sign  of  ill ! 

And  gives  me  his  sad  face’s  pleasures 
For  merriment’s,  or  sleep’s,  or  leisure’s. 

Thomas  Buebidqe. 


SONGS. 


289 


THE  ANNOYER. 

Love  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 

And  comes  unhidden  every  where, 

Like  thought’s  mysterious  birth. 

The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 
Are  written  with  Love’s  words, 

And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior’s  heart 
From  the  tip  of  a stooping  plume, 

And  the  serried  spears,  and  the  many  men 
May  not  deny  him  room. 

He  ’ll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 
And  be  busy  in  his  dream, 

And  he  ’ll  float  to  his  eye  in  the  morning  light, 
Like  a fay  on  a silver  beam. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter’s  gun, 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 

And  sighs  in  his  ear  like  a stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 

The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the 
river, 

The  cloud  and  the  open  sky, — 

He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver, 
Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat, 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 

For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a spell  of  thought  has  he  ; 

He  heaves  the  wave  like  a bosom  sweet, 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 

Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar’s  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden’s  prayer, 

And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man 
In  the  shape  of  a lady  fair. 

In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 
In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 

In  every  home  of  human  thought 
Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 

Nathaniel  Paekeb  Willis. 


RORY  O’MORE; 

OR,  GOOD  OMENS. 

I. 

Young  Rory  O’More  courted  Kathleen  bawn — 

He  was  bold  as  the  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  the 
dawn; 

He  wished  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to 
please, 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was 
to  tease. 

“How,  Rory,  be  aisy,”  sweet  Kathleen  would 
cry, 

Reproof  on  her  lip,  but  a smile  in  her  eye — 

“ With  your  tricks,  I do  n’t  know,  in  throth, 
what  I ’m  about ; 

Faith  you  ’ve  teazed  till  I ’ve  put  on  my  cloak 
inside  out.” 

“Och!  jewel,”  says  Rory,  “that  same  is  the 
way 

You’ve  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a 
day; 

And  ’t  is  plazed  that  I am,  and  why  not,  to 
be  sure  ? 

For ’t  is  all  for  good  luck,”  says  bold  Rory 
O’More. 

ii. 

“Indeed,  then,”  says  Kathleen,  “don’t  think 
of  the  like, 

For  I half  gave  a promise  to  soothering 
Mike ; 

The  ground  that  I walk  on  he  loves,  I ’ll  be 
bound” — 

“Faith!”  says  Rory,  “I’d  rather  love  you 
than  the  ground.” 

“ Now,  Rory,  I ’ll  cry  if  you  do  n’t  let  me  go ; 

Sure  I dream  ev’ry  night  that  I’m  hating 
you  so ! ” 

“ Och ! ” says  Rory,  “ that  same  I ’m  delighted 
to  hear, 

For  dhrames  always  go  by  conthraries,  my 
dear. 

Och!  jewel,  keep  dhraming  that  same  till 
you  die, 

And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the 
black  lie ! 


19 


290  POEMS  OF  LOYE. 

And  ’t  is  plazed  that  I am,  and  why  not,  to 

Gin  a body  meet  a body 

he  sure  ? 

Cornin’  frae  the  town, 

Since  ’tis  all  for  good  luck,”  says  hold  Rory 

Gin  a body  greet  a body, 

O’More. 

Need  a body  frown  ? 

hi. 

Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 
Ne’er  a ane  hae  I ; 

“ Arrah,  Kathleen,  my  darlint,  you’ve  teazed 

Yet  a’  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 
When  cornin’  through  the  rye. 

me  enough ; 

Amang  the  t/rain  there  is  a swain 

Sure  I’ve  thrashed,  for  your  sake,  Dinny 

I dearly  Me  myseV  ; 

Grimes  and  Jim  Duff ; 

But  whaur  his  hame , or  what  his  name , 

And  I ’ve  made  myself,  drinking  your  health, 

I dinna  care  to  tell. 

quite  a haste, 

Anonymous. 

So  I think,  after  that,  I may  talk  to  the 
priest.” 

Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round 

her  neck, 

MOLLY  CAREW. 

So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or 

speck ; 

Och  hone ! and  what  will  I do  ? 

And  he  looked  in  her  eyes,  that  were  beam- 

Sure  my  love  is  all  crost 

ing  with  light, 

Like  a bud  in  the  frost ; 

And  he  kissed  her  sweet  lips — do  n’t  you  think 

And  there ’s  no  use  at  all  in  my  going  to  bed, 

he  was  right  ? 

For  ’t  is  dhrames  and  not  sleep  that  comes 

“ Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir — you  ’ll  hug  me 

into  my  head ; 

no  more — 

And ’t  is  all  about  you, 

That ’s  eight  times  to-day  you  have  kissed  me 

My  sweet  Molly  Carew — 

before.” 

And  indeed ’t  is  a sin  and  a shame ! 

“ Then  here  goes  another,”  says  he,  “ to  make 

You  ’re  complater  than  Nature 

sure, 

In  every  feature ; 

For  there ’s  luck  in  odd  numbers,”  says  Rory 

The  snow  can ’t  compare 

O’More. 

With  your  forehead  so  fair ; 

Samuel  Loyee. 

And  I rather  would  see  just  one  blink  of  your 

COMING  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 

eye 

Than  the  prettiest  star  that  shines  out  of  the 
sky; 

And  by  this  and  by  that, 

For  the  matter  o’  that, 

You  ’re  more  distant  by  far  than  that  same ! 

Gin  a body  meet  a body 

Och  hone ! weirasthru ! 

I ’m  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 

Cornin’  through  the  rye, 

Gin  a body  kiss  a body, 

Och  hone ! but  why  should  I spake 

Need  a body  cry  ? 

Of  your  forehead  and  eyes, 

Every  lassie  has  her  laddie — 

When  your  nose  it  defies 

Ne’er  a ane  hae  I ; 

Paddy  Blake,  the  schoolmaster,  to  put  it  in 

Yet  a’  the  lads  they  smile  at  me 

rhyme ; 

"When  cornin’  through  the  rye. 

Tho’  there’s  one  Burke,  he  says,  that  would 

Amang  the  train  there  is  a swain 

call  it  snublime. 

I dearly  lo'e  myseV  ; 

And  then  for  your  cheek, 

But  whaur  his  hame,  or  what  fris  name , 

Troth ’t  would  take  him  a week 

I dinna  ca/re  to  tell. 

Its  beauties  to  tell,  as  he ’d  rather ; 

SONGS. 


Then  your  lips ! O,  machree ! 

In  their  beautiful  glow 
They  a pattern  might  be 
For  the  cherries  to  grow. 

’T  was  an  apple  that  tempted  our  mother,  we 
know, 

For  apples  were  scarce,  I suppose,  long  ago ; 
But  at  this  time  o’  day, 

Ton  my  conscience  I ’ll  say, 

Such  cherries  might  tempt  a man’s  father ! 
Och  hone ! weirasthru ! 

I ’m  alone  in  this  world  without  you. 

Och  hone ! by  the  man  in  the  mooD, 

You  taze  me  all  ways 
That  a woman  can  plaze, 

For  you  dance  twice  as  high  with  that  thief, 
Pat  Magee, 

As  when  you  take  share  of  a jig,  dear,  with 
me. 

Tho’  the  piper  I bate, 

For  fear  the  ould  cheat 
Wouldn’t  play  you  your  favorite  tune. 

And  when  you  ’re  at  mass 
My  devotion  you  crass, 

For ’t  is  thinking  of  you 
I am,  Molly  Carew. 

While  you  wear,  on  purpose,  a bonnet  so  deep 
That  I can ’t  at  your  sweet  pretty  face  get  a 
peep. 

0,  lave  off  that  bonnet, 

Or  else  I ’ll  lave  on  it 

The  loss  of  my  wandering  sowl ! 

Och  hone  ! weirasthru ! 

Och  hone ! like  an  owl, 

Day  is  night,  dear,  to  me  without  you ! 

Och  hone ! do  n’t  provoke  me  to  do  it ; 

For  there ’s  girls  by  the  score 
That  loves  me — and  more ; 

And  you ’d  look  very  quare  if  some  morning 
you ’d  meet 

My  wedding  all  marching  in  pride  down  the 
street ; 

Troth,  you ’d  open  your  eyes, 

And  you ’d  die  with  surprise 
To  think ’t  was  n’t  you  was  come  to  it ! 

And  faith,  Katty  Naile, 

And  her  cow,  I go  bail, 

Would  jump  if  I ’d  say, 

“Katty  Naile,  name  the  day  ; ” 


291 

And  tho’  you  ’re  fair  and  fresh  as  a morning 
in  May, 

While  she ’s  short  and  dark  like  a cold  win- 
ter’s day, 

Yet  if  you  do  n’t  repent 
Before  Easter,  when  Lent 
Is  over,  I ’ll  marry  for  spite, 

Och  hone ! weirasthru ! 

And  when  I die  for  you, 

My  ghost  will  haunt  you  every  night. 

Samuel  Lovee. 


WIDOW  MACHREE. 

i. 

Widow  machree,  it ’s  no  wonder  you  frown— 
Och  hone ! Widow  machree  ; 

Faith,  it  ruins  your  looks,  that  same  dirty 
black  gown — 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree. 

How  altered  your  air, 

With  that  close  cap  you  wear — 

’T  is  destroying  your  hair, 

Which  should  be  flowing  free : 

Be  no  longer  a churl 
Of  its  black  silken  curl — 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree ! 

ii. 

Widow  machree,  now  the  summer  is  come — 
Och  hone ! Widow  machree ! 

When  every  thing  smiles,  should  a beauty 
look  glum  ? 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree ! 

See  the  birds  go  in  pairs, 

And  the  rabbits  and  hares — 

Why,  even  the  bears 
Now  in  couples  agree ; 

And  the  mute  little  fish, 

Though  they  can ’t  spake,  they  wish — 
Och  hone ! Widow  machree. 

in. 

Widow  machree,  and  when  winter  comes  in — 
Och  hone ! Widow  machree — 

To  be  poking  the  fire  all  alone  is  a sin, 

Och  hone!  Widow  machree. 


292  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Sure  the  shovel  and  tongs 

To  each  other  belongs, 
And  the  kettle  sings  songs 

THE  MAID’S  LAMENT. 

Full  of  family  glee ; 

I loved  him  not ; and  yet,  now  he  is  gone, 

While  alone  with  your  cup, 

I feel  I am  alone. 

Like  a hermit  you  sup, 

I checked  him  while  he  spoke ; yet,  could  he. 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree. 

speak, 

Alas ! I would  not  check. 

IV. 

For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I sought, 

And  how  do  you  know,  with  the  comforts 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 

I ’ve  towld — 

To  vex  myself  and  him  ; I now  would  give 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree — 

My  love,  could  he  hut  live 

But  you  ’re  keeping  some  poor  fellow  out  in 

Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and,  when  he  found 

the  cowld, 

’T  was  vain,  in  holy  ground 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree ! 

He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death ! 

With  such  sins  on  your  head, 

I waste  for  him  my  breath 

Sure  your  peace  would  he  fled ; 

Who  wasted  his  for  me ; but  mine  returns, 

Could  you  sleep  in  your  bed 

And  this  lone  bosom  burns 

Without  thinking  to  see 

With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

Some  ghost  or  some  sprite, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 

That  would  wake  you  each  night, 

Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart ; for  years 

Crying,  “Och  hone!  Widow  machree!” 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears! 

“ Merciful  God ! ” such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

V. 

“ These  may  she  never  share ! ” 

Then  take  my  advice,  darling  Widow  ma- 

Quieter is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold 

chree — 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree — 

Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  churchyard 

And  with  my  advice,  faith,  I wish  you ’d  take 

gate, 

me, 

His  name  and  life’s  brief  date. 

Och  hone !.  Widow  machree! 

Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe’er  ye  he, 

You ’d  have  me  to  desire 

And  0 ! pray,  too,  for  me ! 

Then  to  stir  up  the  fire  ; 
And  sure  Hope  is  no  liar 

Waltek  Savage  Landoe. 

In  whispering  to  me, 

That  the  ghosts  would  depart 
When  you ’d  me  near  your  heart — 

— — 

Och  hone ! Widow  machree ! 

Samuel  Loves. 

LOVE  UNREQUITED. 

» 

Though  thou  say’st  thou  lov’st  me  not, 
And  although  thou  bidd’st  me  blot 

JENNY  KISSED  ME. 

From  my  heart,  and  from  my  brain, 
All  this  consciousness  of  thee, 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  -fre  met, 

With  its  longing,  its  blest  pain, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 

And  its  deathless  memory 

Time,  you  thief!  who  love  to  get 

Of  the  hope, — ah,  why  in  vain  ? — 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 

That  thy  great  heart  might  beat  for  me ; — 

Say  I ’m  weary,  say  I ’m.  sad ; 

Ask  it  not, — Love  fixed  so  high, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me ; 

Though  unrequited,  cannot  die ; 

Say  I ’m  growing  old,  but  add — 

In  my  soul  such  love  hath  root, 

Jenny  kissed  me ! 

And  the  world  shall  have  the  fruit. 

Leigh  Hunt. 

Anonymous. 

ONE  WAY 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 

i. 

This  is  a spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 

Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

O,  what  a hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray’s,  which  the  flying  feet 
hung  to, — 

So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to ! 

H. 

This  is  a heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a minute  erratic, 

Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love’s  regal  dalmatic. 

O,  what  a fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart’s,  ere  the  wanderer 
went  on — 

Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent 
on! 

Kobert  Browning. 


BALLAD. 

Sigh  on,  sad  heart,  for  Love’s  eclipse 
And  Beauty’s  fairest  queen, 

Though ’t  is  not  for  my  peasant  lips 
To  soil  her  name  between. 

A king  might  lay  his  sceptre  down, 
But  I am  poor  and  nought ; 

The  brow  should  wear  a golden  crown 
That  wears  her  in  its  thought. 

The  diamonds  glancing  in  her  hair, 
Whose  sudden  beams  surprise, 

Might  bid  such  humble  hopes  beware 
The  glancing  of  her  eyes ; 

Yet,  looking  once,  I looked  too  long; 

And  if  my  love  is  sin, 

Death  follows  on  the  heels  of  wrong, 
And  kills  the  crime  within. 

Her  dress  seemed  wove  of  lily  leaves, 
It  was  so  pure  and  fine — 

O lofty  wears,  and  lowly  weaves, 

But  hoddan  gray  is  mine ; 


OF  LOVE.  293 

And  homely  hose  must  step  apart, 

Where  gartered  princes  stand ; 

But  may  he  wear  my  love  at  heart 
That  wins  her  lily  hand ! 

Alas ! there ’s  far  from  russet  frieze 
To  silks  and  satin  gowns ; 

But  I doubt  if  God  made  like  degrees 
In  courtly  hearts  and  clowns. 

My  father  wronged  a maiden’s  mirth, 

And  brought  her  cheeks  to  blame  ; 

And  all  that ’s  lordly  of  my  birth 
Is  my  reproach  and  shame ! 

’Tis  vain  to  weep,  ’t  is  vain  to  sigh, 

’T  is  vain  this  idle  speech — 

For  where  her  happy  pearls  do  lie 
My  tears  may  never  reach ; 

Yet  when  I ’m  gone,  e’en  lofty  pride 
May  say,  of  what  has  been, 

His  love  was  nobly  born  and  died, 

Tho’  all  the  rest  was  mean ! 

My  speech  is  rude, — but  speech  is  weak 
Such  love  as  mine  to  tell ; 

Yet  had  I words,  I dare  not  speak : 

So,  Lady,  fare  thee  well ! 

I will  not  wish  thy  better  state 
Was  one  of  low  degree, 

But  I must  weep  that  partial  Fate 
Made  such  a churl  of  me. 

Thomas  Hood. 


ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE. 

All  June  I bound  the  rose  in  sheaves ; 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I strip  the  leaves, 

And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ? Alas ! 

Let  them  lie.  Suppose  they  die  ? 

The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

ii. 

How  many  a month  I strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute ! 

To-day  I venture  all  I know. 

She  will  not  hear  my  music  ? So ! 

Break  the  string — fold  music’s  wing. 
Suppose  Paulino  had  bade  me  sing ! 


294: 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


m. 

My  whole  life  long  I learned  to  love ; 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I prove 
And  speak  my  passion. — Heaven  or  hell  ? 
She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ? ’T  is  well ! 
Lose  who  may — I still  can  say, 

Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they. 

Bobebt  Bbowning. 


THE  DREAM. 

i. 

Our  life  is  twofold : sleep  hath  its  own 
world — 

A boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence : sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a wide  realm  of  wild  reality ; 

And  dreams  in  their  development  have 
breath, 

And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of 

joy; 

They  leave  a weight  upon  our  waking 
thoughts ; 

They  take  a weight  from  off  our  waking 
toils ; 

They  do  divide  our  being ; they  become 
A portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 

And  look  like  heralds  of  Eternity ; 

They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they 
speak 

Like  sibyls  of  the  future ; they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 

They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what 
they  will ; 

They  shake  us  with  the  vision  that ’s  gone 

t>y, 

The  dread  of  vanished  shadows — are  they 
so  ? 

Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ? What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ? — the  mind  can  make 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and 
give 

A breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all 
flesh. 

I would  recall  a vision,  which  I dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a thought, 

A slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a long  life  into  one  hour. 


n. 

I saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a hill,  a gentle  hill, 

Green  and  of  mild  declivity;  the  last, 

As  ’t  were  the  cape,  of  a long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a most  living  landscape,  aDd  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of 
men 

Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs ; — the  hill 
Was  crowned  with  a peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array — so  fixed, 

Hot  by  the  sport  of  Nature,  but  of  man : 
These  two,  a maiden  and  a youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath ; 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beau- 
tiful; 

And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in 
youth. 

As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  horizon’s  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood ; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers ; but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him ; he  had  looked 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away ; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers ; 

She  was  his  voice ; he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words;  she  was  his 
sight, 

For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with 
hers, 

Which  colored  all  his  objects ; — he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself ; she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all;  upon  a tone, 

A touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and 
flow, 

And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously — his 
heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  share : 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him ; to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a brother — but  no  more;  ’twas 
much ; 

For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him — 
Herself  the  solitary  scion  left 


THE  DREAM. 


235 


Of  a time-honored  race. — It  was  a name 
Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him 
not — and  why  ? 

Time  taught  him  a deep  answer — when  she 
loved 

Another.  Even  now  she  loved  another ; 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 
Looking  afar,  if  yet  her  lover’s  steed 
Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. 

m. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion ; and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a steed  caparisoned. 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  Boy  of  whom  I spake ; — he  was  alone, 
And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro.  Anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a pen  and 
traced 

Words  which  I could  not  guess  of;  then  he 
leaned 

His  bowed  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook,  as 
’t  were 

With  a convulsion — then  arose  again ; 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did 
tear 

What  he  had  written ; hut  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a kind  of  quiet.  As  he  paused, 

The  lady  of  his  love  reentered  there ; 

She  was  serene  and  smiling  then ; and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved;  she 
knew — 

How  quickly  comes  such  knowledge!  that 
his  heart 

Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  .he  was  wretched ; but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and  with  a cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand ; a moment  o’er  his  face 
A tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced ; and  then  it  faded  as  it  came. 

He  dropped  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow 
steps 

Retired  ; but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles.  He 
passed 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall ; 
And,  mounting  on  his  steed,  he  went  his  way ; 
And  ne’er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold 
more. 


IV. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood.  In  the 
wilds 

Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a home, 

And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams ; he  was 
girt 

With  strange  and  dusky  aspects ; he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been ; on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a wanderer ; 

There  was  a mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A part  of  all ; and  in  the  last  he  lay, 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them ; by  his  sleeping 
side 

Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a fountain ; and  a man 
Clad  in  a flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbered  around ; 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky — 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 

That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven. 

v. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better.  In  her  home, 
A thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native 
home — 

She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty.  But  behold ! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 

And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — She  had  all  she 
loved ; 

And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 

Or  ill-repressed  affection,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him 
not, 

Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  be- 
loved ; 

Nor  could  he  be  a part  of  that  which  preyed 
Upon  her  mind — a spectre  of  the  past. 


296 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


VI. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Wanderer  was  returned — I saw  him 
stand 

Before  an  altar,  with  a gentle  bride ; 

Her  face  was  fair ; hut  was  not  that  which 
made 

The  starlight  of  his  Boyhood.  As  he  stood, 
Even  at  the  altar,  o’er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering 
shock 

That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude ; and  then — 

As  in  that  hour — a moment  o’er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced— and  then  it  faded  as  it  came ; 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet ; and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own 
words ; 

And  all  things  reeled  around  him ; he  could 
see 

Hot  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should 
have  been — 

But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed 
hall. 

And  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the 
place, 

The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the 
shade — 

All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny — came  hack 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the 
fight : 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a time  ? 
vn. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Lady  of  his  love — 0 ! she  was  changed, 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ; her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling;  and  her 
eyes, 

They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  hut  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth ; she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a fantastic  realm  ; her  thoughts 
vVere  combinations  of  disjointed  things; 

And  forms  impalpable,  and  unperceived 
Of  others’  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 

And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy ; but  the 
wise 

Have  a far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 


Of  melancholy  is  a fearful  gift ; 

What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 

Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! 

VIII. 

A change  came  o’er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Wanderer  was  alone,  as  heretofore; 

The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him ; he  was  a mark 
For  blight  and  desolation — compassed  round 
With  Hatred  and  Contention;  Pain  was 
mixed 

In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him ; until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 

He  fed  on  poisons ; and  they  had  no  power, 
But  were  a kind  of  nutriment.  He  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many 
men; 

And  made  him  friends  of  mountains.  With 
the  stars, 

And  the  quick  spirit  of  the  Universe, 

He  held  his  dialogues ! and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries ; 

To  him  the  book  of  Hight  was  opened  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 
A marvel  and  a secret — Be  it  so. 

IX. 

My  dream  was  past:  it  had  no  further 
change. 

It  was  of  a strange  order,  that  the  doom 
Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced 
out 

Almost  like  a reality — the  one 
To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery. 

Lord  Byron 


ASK  ME  HO  MORE. 

Ask  me  no  more  : the  moon  may  draw  the 
sea; 

The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take 
the  shape, 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape. 
But,  0 too  fond,  when  have  I answered  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 


IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 


297 


Ask  me  no  more : what  answer  should  I give  ? 
I love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye ; 

Yet,  O my  friend,  I will  not  have  thee  die ! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I should  hid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more:  thy  fate  and  mine  are 
sealed. 

I strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain. 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main. 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a touch  I yield ; 

Ask  me  no  more ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


WHEN  WE  TWO  PARTED. 

When  we  two  parted 
In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 
Colder  thy  kiss  ; 

Truly  that  hour  foretold 
Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow — 

It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I feel  now. 

Thy  vows  are  all  broken. 

And  light  is  thy  fame ; 

I hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A knell  to  mine  ear ; 

A shudder  comes  o’er  me — 
Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 

They  know  not  I knew  thee, 
Who  knew  thee  too  well. 

Long,  long,  shall  I rue  thee 
Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I grieve, 

That  thy  heart  could  forget, 
Thy  spirit  deceive. 


If  I should  meet  thee 
After  long  years, 

How  should  I greet  thee  ? — 

In  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Byron. 


IT  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

An  August  evening,  on  a balcony 
That  overlooked  a woodland  and  a lake, 

I sat  in  the  still  air,  and  talked  with  one 
Whose  face  shone  fairer  than  the  crescent 
moon. 

Just  over-head,  a violin  and  flute 
Played  prelude  to  a dance.  Their  long- 
drawn  chords 

Poured  through  the  windows,  gaping  sum- 
mer-wide, 

A flood  of  notes  that,  flowing  outward,  swept 
To  the  last  ripple  of  the  orchard  trees. 

I had  not  known  her  long,  but  loved  her 
more 

Than  I could  dream  of  then — O,  even  now 
I dare  not  dwell  upon  my  passion, — more 
Than  life  itself  I loved  her,  and  still  love. 

The  white  enchantment  of  her  dimpled  hand 
Lay  soft  in  mine ! I looked  into  her  eyes ; 

I knew  I was  unworthy,  but  I felt 
That  I was  noble  if  she  did  but  smile. 

A light  of  stars  shone  round  her  head ; I saw 
The  sombre  shores  that  gloomed  the  lake 
below ; 

The  shadows  settling  on  the  distant  hills ; 

I heard  the  pleasant  music  of  the  night, 
Brought  by  the  wind,  a vagrant  messenger, 
From  the  deep  forest  and  the  broad,  sweet 
fields. 

But  when  she  spoke,  and  her  pervasive  voice 
Stole  on  me  till  I trembled  to  my  knees, 

1 pressed  my  lips  to  hers — then  round  me 
glowed 

A sudden  light,  that  seemed  to  flash  me  on, 
Beyond  myself,  beyond  the  fainting  stars. 
Then  all  the  bleak  disheartenings  of  a life 
I That  had  not  been  of  pleasure  faded  off, 


298 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


And  left  me  with  a purpose,  and  a hope 
That  1 was  born  for  something  braver  than 
To  hang  my  head  and  wear  a nameless  name. 

That  hour  has  passed,  nor  ever  came  again. 
We  all  do  live  such — so  I would  believe. 
Life’s  mere  arithmetic  and  prose  are  mine, 
And  I have  missed  the  beauty  of  the  world. 

Let  this  remembrance  comfort  me, — that 
when 

My  heart  seemed  bursting — like  a restless 
wave, 

That,  swollen  with  fearful  longing  for  the 
shore, 

Throws  its  strong  life  on  the  imagined  bliss 
Of  finding  peace  and  undisturbed  calm — 

It  fell  on  rock  and  broke  in  many  tears. 

Else  could  I bear,  on  all  days  of  the  year, 
Not  now  alone — this  gentle  summer  night, 
When  scythes  are  busy  in  the  headed  grass, 
And  the  full  moon  warms  me  to  thought- 
fulness,— 

This  voice,  that  haunts  the  desert  of  my  soul ; 
“It  might  have  been,”  alas!  “It  might  have 
been!  ” 

William  Cboss  Williamson. 


WE  PARTED  IN  SILENCE. 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river; 

Where  the  fragrant  limes  their  boughs  unite, 
We  met — and  we  parted  for  ever! 

The  night-bird  sung,  and  the  stars  above 
Told  many  a touching  story, 

Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of 
love, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence — our  cheeks  were  wet 
With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling; 

We  vowed  we  would  never — no,  never  for- 
get, 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  con- 
soling; 


But  those  lips  that  echoed  the  sounds  of  mine 
Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river ; 

And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit’s  shrine, 
Has  shrouded  its  fires  for  ever. 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping ; 

Each  star  is  to  me  a sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 

We  parted  in  silence — we  parted  in  tears, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river : 

But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  by-gone 
years 

Shall  hang  o’er  its  waters  for  ever. 

Mbs.  Cka'wfoed. 


IN  A YEAR. 

Neveb  any  more 

While  I live, 

Need  I hope  to  see  his  face 
As  before. 

Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive — 

Bitterly  we  reembrace, 

Single  still. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 

Vexed  him?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 
Turn  of  head  ? 

Strange ! that  very  way 
Love  begun. 

I as  little  understand 
Love’s  decay. 

When  I sewed  or  drew, 

I recall 

How  he  looked  as  if  I sang 
— Sweetly  too. 

If  I spoke  a word, 

First  of  all 

Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprang, 
Then  he  heard. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 

So  he  breathed  the  air  I breathed, 
Satisfied ! 


j 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 


299 


I,  too,  at  love’s  brim 

Touched  the  sweet. 

I would  die  if  death  bequeathed 
Sweet  to  him. 

“ Speak — I love  thee  best ! 

He  exclaimed — 

“Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell.” 

I confessed : 

“ Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 
Now  unblamed, 

Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 
Hangeth  mine ! ” 

Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 

Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 
His  alone  ? 

I had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth — 

Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I gave  these. 

That  was  all  I meant, 

— To  be  just, 

And  the  passion  I had  raised 
To  content. 

Since  he  chose  to  change 
Gold  for  dust, 

If  I gave  him  what  he  praised 
Was  it  strange? 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 

While  I found  some  way  undreamed 
— Paid  my  debt ! 

Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone, 

He  should  smile  “ She  never  seemed 
Mine  before. 

“ What — she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I think  ? 

Love ’s  so  different  with  us  men,” 
ne  should  smile. 

“ Dying  for  my  sake — 

White  and  pink ! 

Can ’t  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 
But  they  break  ? ” 


Dear,  the  pang  is  brief. 

Do  thy  part, 

Have  thy  pleasure.  How  perplext 
Grows  belief! 

Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 
Was  man’s  heart. 

Crumble  it — and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God  ? 

Robebt  Bkowning. 


MARIANA  IN  THE  SOUTH. 

i. 

With  one  black  shadow  at  its  feet, 

The  house  through  all  the  level  shines, 
Close-latticed  to  the  brooding  heat, 

And  silent  in  its  dusty  vines ; 

A faint-blue  ridge  upon  the  right, 

An  empty  river-bed  before, 

And  shallows  on  a distant  shore, 

In  glaring  sand  and  inlets  bright. 

But  “ Ave  Mary,”  made  she  moan, 
And  “Ave  Mary,”  night  and  morn; 
And  “Ah,”  she  sang,  “to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 

ii. 

She,  as  her  carol  sadder  grew, 

From  brow  and  bosom  slowly  down 
Through  rosy  taper  fingers  drew 

Her  streaming  curls  of  deepest  brown 
To  left  and  right,  and  made  appear, 
Still-lighted  in  a secret  shrine, 

Her  melancholy  eyes  divine, 

The  home  of  woe  without  a tear. 

And  “Ave  Mary,”  was  her  moan, 
“Madonna,  sad  is  night  and  morn ; ” 
And  “Ah,”  she  sang,  “to  be  all  alone, 
To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 

hi. 

Till  all  the  crimson  changed,  and  passed 
Into  deep  orange  o’er  the  sea, 

Low  on  her  knees  herself  she  cast, 

Before  Our  Lady  murmured  she ; 
Complaining,  “ Mother,  give  me  grace 
To  help  me  of  my  weary  load ! ” * 

And  on  the  liquid  mirror  glowed 
The  clear  perfection  of  her  face. 


soo 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


“ Is  this  the  form,”  she  made  her  moan, 
“ That  won  his  praises  night  and  morn  ?” 
And  “Ah,”  she  said,  “but  I wake  alone, 
I sleep  forgotten,  I wake  forlorn.” 

IY. 

Nor  bird  would  sing,  nor  lamb  would  bleat, 
Nor  any  cloud  would  cross  the  vault, 

But  day  increased  from  heat  to  heat, 

On  stony  drought  and  steaming  salt ; 

Till  now  at  noon  she  slept  again, 

And  seemed  knee-deep  in  mountain  grass, 
And  heard  her  native  breezes  pass, 

And  runlets  babbling  down  the  glen. 

She  breathed  in  sleep  a lower  moan ; 

And  murmuring,  as  at  night  and  morn, 
She  thought,  “My  spirit  is  here  alone, 
Walks  forgotten,  and  is  forlorn.” 

v. 

Dreaming,  she  knew  it  was  a dream ; 

She  felt  he  was  and  was  not  there. 

She  woke : the  babble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare 
Shrank  the  sick  olive  sere  and  small. 

The  river-bed  was  dusty  white ; 

And  all  the  furnace  of  the  light 
Struck  up  against  the  blinding  wall. 

She  whispered,  with  a stifled  moan 
More  inward  than  at  night  or  morn, 

“ Sweet  Mother,  let  me  not  here  alone 
Live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn.” 

VI. 

And,  rising,  from  her  bosom  drew 
Old  letters,  breathing  of  her  worth  ; 

For  “Love,”  they  said,  “must  needs  be  true, 
To  what  is  loveliest  upon  earth.” 

An  image  seemed  to  pass  the  door. 

To  look  at  her  with  slight,  and  say, 

“ But  now  thy  beauty  flows  away, 

So  be  alone  for  evermore.” 

“ O cruel  heart,”  she  changed  her  tone, 
“And  cruel  love,  whose  end  is  scorn, 
Is  this  the  end — to  be  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  die  forlorn  I ” 

VII. 

But  sometimes  in  the  falling  day 
An  image  seemed  to  pass  the  door, 

To  look  into  her  eyes  and  say, 

“ But  thou  shalt  be  alone  no  more.” 


And  flaming  downward  over  all, 

From  heat  to  heat  the  day  decreased, 

And  slowly  rounded  to  the  east 
The  one  black  shadow  from  the  wall. 

“ The  day  to  night,”  she  made  her  moan, 
“ The  day  to  night,  the  night  to  morn; 
And  day  and  night  I am  left  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 

VIII. 

At  eve  a dry  cicala  sung ; 

There  came  a sound  as  of  the  sea; 
Backward  the  lattice-blind  she  flung, 

And  leaned  upon  the  balcony. 

There  all  in  spaces  rosy-bright 
Large  Hesper  glittered  on  her  tears, 

And  deepening  through  the  silent  spheres, 
Heaven  over  Heaven, rose  the  night, 

And  weeping  then  she  made  her  moan, 
“ The  night  comes  on  that  knows  not 
morn; 

When  I shall  cease  to  be  all  alone, 

To  live  forgotten,  and  love  forlorn.” 
Alfred  Tennyson. 


SOHG. 

“ A weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A weary  lot  is  thine ! 

To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid, 
And  press  the  rue  for  wine ! 

A lightsome  eye,  a soldier’s  mien, 

A feather  of  the  blue, 

A doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

“ This  morn  is  merry  June,  1 trow  — 
The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 

But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 
Ere  we  two  meet  again.” 

He  turned  his  charger  as  he  spake, 
Upon  the  river  shore ; 

He  gave  his  bridle  reins  a shake, 
Said,  “ Adieu  for  evermore, 

My  love ! 

And  adieu  for  evermore.” 


Sib  Walter  Scott. 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


301 


LOCKSLEY  HALL. 

Comkade9,  leave  me  here  a little,  while  as 
yet ’t  is  early  morn — 

Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound 
upon  the  bugle  horn. 

‘T  is  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the 
curlews  call, 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland, flying  over 
Locksley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,  that  in  the  distance  overlooks 
the  sandy  tracts, 

And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into 
cataracts. 

Many  a night  from  yonder  ivied  casement, 
ere  I went  to  rest, 

Did  I look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to 
the  West. 

Many  a night  I saw  the  Pleiads,  rising  through 
the  mellow  shade, 

Glitter  like  a swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a 
silver  braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I wandered,  nourishing 
a youth  sublime 

With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long 
result  of  Time ; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a fruitful 
land  reposed ; 

When  I clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  prom- 
ise that  it  closed ; 

When  I dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye 
could  see — 

Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  won- 
der that  would  be. 

In  the  Spring  a fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the 
robin’s  breast ; 

Tn  the  Spring  the  wanton  lapwing  gets  him- 
self another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a livelier  iris  changes  on  the 
burnished  dove ; 

In  the  Spring  a young  man’s  fancy  lightly 
turns  to  thoughts  of  love. 


Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than 
should  be  for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a mute 
observance  hung. 

And  I said,  “ My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and 
speak  the  truth  to  me  ; 

Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being 
sets  to  thee.” 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a 
color  and  a light, 

As  I have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the 
northern  night. 

And  she  turned — her  bosom  shaken  with  a 
sudden  storm  of  sighs — 

All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of 
hazel  eyes — 

Saying,  “ I have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they 
should  do  me  wrong ; ” 

Saying,  “Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin?”  weep- 
ing, “I  have  loved  thee  long.” 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turned 
it  in  his  glowing  hands  ; 

Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in 
golden  sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on 
all  the  chords  with  might ; 

Smote  the  chord  of  Self,  that,  trembling, 
passed  in  music  out  of  sight. 

Many  a morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  near 
the  copses  ring, 

And  her  whisper  thronged  my  pulses  with 
the  fulness  of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch 
the  stately  ships, 

And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touch- 
ing of  the  lips. 

0 my  cousin,  shallow-hearted ! O my  Amy, 
mine  no  more ! 

0 the  dreary,  dreary  moorland ! O the  bar- 
ren, barren  shore ! 


302  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all 
songs  have  sung — 

Puppet  to  a father’s  threat,  and  servile  to  a 
shrewish  tongue ! 

Cursed  be  the  sickly  forms  that  err  from 
honest  Nature’s  rule ! 

Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straitened 
forehead  of  the  fool ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ? — having  known 
me;  to  decline 

On  a range  of  lower  feelings  and  a narrower 
heart  than  mine ! 

Well — ’t  is  well  that  I should  bluster ! — Hadst 
thou  less  unworthy  proved, 

Would  to  God — for  I had  loved  thee  more 
than  ever  wife  was  loved. 

Yet  it  shall  be : thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level 
day  by  day, 

What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to 
sympathize  with  clay. 

Am  I mad,  that  I should  cherish  that  which 
bears  but  bitter  fruit  ? 

I will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  though  my 
heart  be  at  the  root. 

As  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is;  thou  art 
mated  with  a clown, 

And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have 
weight  to  drag  thee  down. 

Never!  though  my  mortal  summers  to  such 
length  of  years  should  come 
As  the  many-wintered  crow  that  leads  the 
clanging  rookery  home. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall 
have  spent  its  novel  force, 

Something  better  than  his  dog,  a little  dearer 
than  his  horse. 

Where  is  comfort  ? in  division  of  the  records 
of  the  mind  ? 

Can  I part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as 
I knew  her,  kind  ? 

What  is  this  ? his  eyes  are  heavy — think  not 
they  are  glazed  with  wine. 

Go  to  him ; it  is  thy  duty — kiss  him ; take 
his  hand  in  thine. 

I remember  one  that  perished ; sweetly  did 
she  speak  and  move ; 

Such  a one  do  I remember,  whom  to  look  at 
was  to  love. 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is 
overwrought — 

Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him 
with  thy  lighter  thought. 

Can  I think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for 
the  love  she  bore  ? 

No — she  never  loved  me  truly ; love  is  love 
for  evermore. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to 
understand — 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  though  I 
slew  thee  with  my  hands. 

Comfort  ? comfort  scorned  of  devils ! this  is 
truth  the  poet  sings, 

That  a sorrow’s  crown  of  sorrow  is  remem- 
bering happier  things. 

Better  thou  and  I were  lying,  hidden  from 
the  heart’s  disgrace, 

Rolled  in  one  another’s  arms,  and  silent  in  a 
last  embrace. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest 
thy  heart  be  put  to  proof, 

In  the  dead,  unhappy  night,  and  when  the 
rain  is  on  the  roof. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against 
the  strength  of  youth  ! 

Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from 
the  living  truth ! 

Like  a dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams .;  and  thou  art 
staring  at  the  wall, 

Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the 
shadows  rise  and  fall. 

LOCKSLEY  HALL. 


303 


Then  a hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing 
to  his  drunken  sleep, 

To  thy  widowed  marriage-pillows,  to  the 
tears  that  thou  wilt  weep. 

Every  gate  is  thronged  with  suitors;  all  the 
markets  overflow. 

I have  but  an  angry  fancy : what  is  that 
which  I should  do  ? 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  “Never,  never,”  whis- 
pered by  the  phantom  years, 

And  a song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ring- 
ing of  thine  ears ; 

I had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the 
foeman’s  ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  rolled  in  vapor,  and  the 
winds  are  laid  with  sound. 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient 
kindness  on  thy  pain. 

Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow ; get  thee 
to  thy  rest  again. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt 
that  honor  feels, 

And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,  snarling  at 
each  other’s  heels. 

i 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace;  for  a 
tender  voice  will  cry ; 

’T  is  a purer  life  than  thine ; a lip  to  drain 
thy  trouble  dry. 

1 

Can  I but  relive  in  sadness  ? I will  turn  that 
earlier  page. 

Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  0 thou  won- 
drous Mother- Age ! 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down;  my  latest 
rival  brings  thee  rest — 

Baby  fingers,  waxen  touches,  press  me  from 
the  mother’s  breast. 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I felt 
before  the  strife, 

When  I heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the 
tumult  of  my  life  ; 

0,  the  child,  too,  clothes  the  father  with  a 
dearness  not  his  due ; 

Half  is  thine,  and  half  is  his — it  will  be 
worthy  of  the  two. 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the 
coming  years  would  yield — 
Eager-hearted  as  a boy  when  first  he  leaves 
his  father’s  field, 

0,  I see  thee,  old  and  formal,  fitted  to  thy  pet- 
ty part, 

With  a little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down 
a daughter’s  heart : 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near 
and  nearer  drawn, 

Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London  flaring 
like  a dreary  dawn ; 

“ They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — 
she  herself  was  not  exempt — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffered.” — Perish  in 
thy  self-contempt ! 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone 
before  him  then, 

Underneath  the  light  he  looks  at,  in  among 
the  throngs  of  men — 

Overlive  it — lower  yet — be  happy ! wherefore 
should  I care  ? 

1 myself  must  mix  with  action,  lest  I wither 
by  despair. 

Men,  my  brothers,  men  the  workers,  ever 
reaping  something  new : 

That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the 
things  that  they  shall  do ; 

What  is  that  which  I should  turn  to,  lighting 
upon  days  like  these  ? 

Every  door  is  barred  with  gold,  and  opens 
but  to  golden  keys. 

For  I dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye 
could  see — 

Saw  the  vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  won- 
der that  would  be — 

304  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies 
of  magic  sails, 

Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,  dropping  down 
with  costly  bales — 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers;  and  I 
linger  on  the  shore, 

And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is 
more  and  more. 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and 
there  rained  a ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations’  airy  navies  grappling  in 
the  central  blue ; 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and 
he  bears  a laden  breast, 

Full  of  sad  experience  moving  toward  the 
stillness  of  his  rest. 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the 
south- wind  rushing  warm, 

With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging 
through  the  thunder-storm ; 

Hark ! my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding 
on  the  bugle  horn — 

They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a tar- 
get for  their  scorn  ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbbed  no  longer,  and 
the  battle-flags  were  furled 
In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of 
the  world. 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a 
mouldered  string  ? 

I am  shamed  through  all  my  nature  to  have 
loved  so  slight  a thing. 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a 
fretful  realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in 
universal  law. 

Weakness  to  be  wroth  with  weakness ! 

woman’s  pleasure,  woman’s  pain — 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded 
in  a shallower  brain ; 

So  I triumphed,  ere  my  passion  sweeping 
through  me, left  me  dry, 

Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me 
with  the  jaundiced  eye — 

W oman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  pas- 
sions, matched  with  mine, 

Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  water 
unto  wine — 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here 
are  out  of  joint 

Science  moves,  but  slowly,  slowly,  creeping 
on  from  point  to  point ; 

Here  at  least,  where  Nature  sickens,  nothing. 
Ah,  for  some  retreat 

Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life 
began  to  beat ! 

Slowly  comes  a hungry  people,  as  a lion, 
creeping  nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a 
slowly-dving  fire. 

Where  in  wild  Hahratta-battle  fell  my  father, 
evil-starred ; 

I was  left  a trampled  orphan,  and  a selfish 
uncle’s  ward. 

Yet  I doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increas- 
ing purpose  runs, 

And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with 
the  process  of  the  suns. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wan- 
der far  away, 

On  from  island  unto,  island  at  the  gateways 
of  the  day — 

What  is  that  to  him  that  reaps  not  harvest  of 
his  youthful  joys, 

Though  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for 
ever  like  a boy’s  ? 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons 
and  happy  skies, 

Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster, 
knots  of  Paradise. 

ORPHEUS  TO  BEASTS.  305 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  Eu- 

Through  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep 

ropean  flag — 

into  the  younger  day : 

Slides  the  bird  o’er  lustrous  woodland,  droops 

Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a cycle  of 

the  trailer  from  the  crag — 

Cathay. 

Droops  the  heavy-blossomed  bower,  hangs 

Mother-age,  (for  mine  I knew  not,)  help  me 

the  heavy-fruited  tree — 

as  when  life  begun — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple 

Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the 

spheres  of  sea. 

There,  methinks,  would  be  enjoyment  more 

lightnings,  weigh  the  sun — 

than  in  this  march  of  mind — 

0,  I see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit 

In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the 

hath  not  set ; 

thoughts  that  shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions,  cramped  no  longer,  shall 

Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  through  all 
my  fancy  yet. 

have  scope  and  breathing-space ; 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a long  farewell  to 

I will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear 

Locksley  Hall ! 

my  dusky  race. 

Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinewed,  they  shall  dive, 
and  they  shall  run, 

me  the  roof-tree  fall. 

Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl 

Comes  a vapor  from  the  margin,  blackening 

their  lances  in  the  sun 

over  heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast 

Whistle  back  the  parrot’s  call,  and  leap  the 
rainbows  of  the  brooks, 

a thunderbolt. 

Not  with  blinded  eyesight  poring  over  mis- 

Let it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail, 

erable  books — 

or  fire  or  snow ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward. 

Fool,  again  the  dream,  the  fancy ! but  I know 

and  I go. 

my  words  are  wild, 

But  I count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than 

Alfred  Tennyson. 

the  Christian  child. 

I to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of 

our  glorious  gains, 

ORPHEUS  TO  BEASTS. 

Like  a beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a beast 
with  lower  pains ! 

Heke,  here,  0 here,  Eurydice — 
Here  was  she  slain — 

Mated  with  a squalid  savage — what  to  me 

Her  soul  ’stilled  through  a vein ; 

were  sun  or  clime  ? 

The  gods  knew  less 

I the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files 

That  time  divinity, 

of  time — 

I that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish 

Than  ev’n,  ev’n  these 
Of  brutishness. 

one  by  one, 

0 could  you  view  the  melody 

Than  that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like 

Of  every  grace, 

Joshua’s  moon  in  Ajalon ! 

And  music  of  her  face, 

You ’d  drop  a tear ; 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.  Forward, 

Seeing  more  harmony 

forward  let  us  range; 

In  her  bright  eye, 

Let  the  great  world  spin  forever  down  the 

Than  now  you  hear. 

ringing  grooves  of  change. 
20 

Richard  Lovelace. 

306  POEMS  OF  LOVE. 

0 THAT  ’TWERE  POSSIBLE. 

And  the  woodland  echo  rings 
In  a moment  we  shall  meet ; 

i. 

She  is  singing  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 

0 that  ’twere  possible 

Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again ! 

VII. 

Do  I hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 

n. 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 

When  I was  wont  to  meet  her 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 

In  the  silent  woody  places 

But  there  rings  on  a sudden  a passionate 

Of  the  land  that  gave  me  birth, 

cry — 

We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead ; 

Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 

And  a sullen  thunder  is  rolled ; 

Than  anything  on  earth. 

For  a tumult  shakes  the  city, 

m. 

And  I wake— my  dream  is  fled ; 
In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 

A shadow  flits  before  me, 

Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee ; 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

That  abiding  phantom  cold ! 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

VIII. 

What  and  where  they  be  ! 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again ! 

IV. 

Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

Pass  and  cease  to  move  about ! 

*It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

’T  is  the  blot  upon  the  brain 

In  a cold  white  robe  before  me, 

That  will  show  itself  without. 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

IX. 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 

Then  I rise;  the  eave-drops  fall, 

V. 

And  the  yellow  vapors  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide ; 

Half  the  night  I waste  in  sighs, 

The  day  comes— a dull  red  ball 

Half  in  dreams  I sorrow  after 

Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 

The  delight  of  early  skies ; 

On  the  misty  river-tide. 

In  a wakeful  doze  I sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes — 

X. 

For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 

Thro’  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 

I steal,  a wasted  frame; 

The  delight  of  low  replies. 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 

VI. 

Thro’  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud 
The  shadow  still  the  same ; 

’T  is  a morning  pure  and  sweet, 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

And  a dewy  splendor  falls 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 

XI. 

’Tis  a morning  pure  and  sweet, 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 

Came  glimmering  thro1  the  laurels 

THE  BLOOM  HATH  FLED  THY  CHEEK,  MARY. 


30 1 


At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 
Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

XII. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 

In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 

As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 

Should  I fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  “forgive  the  wrong,” 

Or  to  ask  her,  “take  me,  sweet, 

To  the  regions  of  thy  rest  ? ” 

XIII. 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  heats, 
And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 
And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  I loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 
And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me ; 

Always  I long  to  creep 
Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 
My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


SOMNET. 

Why  art  thou  silent ! Is  thy  love  a plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ? 

Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant 
(As  would  my  deeds  have  been)  with  hourly 
care, 

The  mind’s  least  generous  wish  a mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could 
spare. 

Speak ! though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free 
. to  hold 

A thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 
Than  a forsaken  bird’s-nest,  filled  with  snow 
’Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine  ; 
Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end 
may  know  I 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  BLOOM  HATH  FLED  THY  CHEEK, 
MARY. 

The  bloom  hath  fled  thy  cheek,  Mary, 

As  spring’s  rath  blossoms  die ; 

And  sadness  hath  o’ershadowed  now 
Thy  once  bright  eye ; 

But  look ! on  me  the  prints  of  grief 
Still  deeper  lie. 

Farewell ! 

Thy  lips  are  pale  and  mute,  Mary ; 

Thy  step  is  sad  and  slow ; 

The  morn  of  gladness  hath  gone  by 
Thou  erst  did  know ; 

I,  too,  am  changed  like  thee,  and  weep 
For  very  woe. 

Farewell ! 

It  seems  as  ’twere  but  yesterday 
We  were  the  happiest  twain, 

When  murmured  sighs  and  joyous  tears, 
Dropping  like  rain, 

Discoursed  my  love,  and  told  how  loved 
I was  again. 

Farewell ! 

’T  was  not  in  cold  and  measured  phrase 
We  gave  our  passion  name ; 

Scorning  such  tedious  eloquence, 

Our  hearts’  fond  flame 

And  long-imprisoned  feelings  fast 
In  deep  sobs  came. 

Farewell ! 

Would  that  our  love  had  been  the  love 
That  merest  worldlings  know, 

When  passion’s  draught  to  our  doomed  lips 
Turns  utter  woe, 

And  our  poor  dream  of  happiness 
Vanishes  so! 

Farewell! 

But  in  the  wreck  of  all  our  hopes 
There ’s  yet  some  touch  of  bliss, 

Since  fate  robs  not  our  wretchedness 
Of  this  last  kiss  : 

Despair,  and  love,  and  madness  meet 
In  this,  in  this. 

Farewell ! 

William  Motherwell. 


308 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


WALY,  WALY,  BUT  LOYE  BE  BONNY. 

0 walt,  waly  up  the  bank, 

And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae, 

And  waly,  waly  yon  burn  side, 

Where  I and  my  love  wont  to  gae. 

1 leaned  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I thought  it  was  a trusty  tree ; 

But  first  it  bowed,  and  syne  it  brak — 

Sae  my  true  love  did  lightly  me ! 

0 waly,  waly,  but  love  be  bonny, 

A little  time  while  it  is  new ; 

But  when  ’tis  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  away  like  the  morning  dew. 

0 wherefore  should  I busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherefore  should  I kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he  ’ll  never  love  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  shall  be  my  bed; 

The  sheets  shall  ne’er  be  fyled  by  me ; 
Saint  Anton’s  well  shall  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  love  has  forsaken  me. 

Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 
And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the  tree  ? 
O gentle  Death,  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 

For  of  my  life  I ’m  weary. 

’T  is  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawing  snaw’s  inclemency ; 

’T  is  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  love’s  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 

When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town, 

We  were  a comely  sight  to  see ; 

My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

And  I my  sell  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I wist,  before  I kissed, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win, 

I ’d  locked  my  heart  in  a case  of  gold, 

And  pinned  it  with  a silver  pin. 

O,  0,  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse’s  knee, 

And  I my  sell  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  growin’  over  me ! 

Anonymous. 


JEANIE  MORRISON. 

I ’ve  wandered  east,  I ’ve  wandered  west, 
Through  mony  a weary  way ; 

But  never,  never  can  forget 
The  luve  o’  life’s  young  day ! 

The  fire  that ’s  blawn  on  Beltane  e’en 
May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ; 

But  blacker  fa’  awaits  the  heart 
Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0 dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o’  bygane  years 

Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 
And  blind  my  een  wi’  tears : 

They  blind  my  een  wi’  saut,  saut  tears, 
And  sair  and  sick  I pine, 

As  memory  idly  summons  up 
The  blithe  blinks  o’  langsyne. 

’T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

’T  was  then  we  twa  did  part ; 

Sweet  time — sad  time!  twa  bairns  at  scule, 
Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 

’T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 

And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 
Remembered  evermair. 

1 wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 

Cheek  touchin’  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 
What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 

When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 
Wi’  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 

Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 
My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

0,  mind  ye  how  we  hung  our  heads, 

How  cheeks  brent  red  wi’  shame, 

Whene’er  the  scule-weans,  laughin’,  said 
We  cleeked  thegither  hame  ? 

And  mind  ye  o’  the  Saturdays, 

(The  scule  then  skail’t  at  noon,) 

When  we  ran  off  to  speel  the  braes,— 

The  broomy  braes  o’  June  ? 

My  head  rins  round  and  round  about — 

My  heart  flows  like  a sea, 

As  ane  by  ane  the  thochts  rush  back 
O’  scule-time  and  o’  thee. 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE 

0 mornin’  life ! O mornin’  luve  ! 

0 lichtsome  days  and  lang, 

When  hinnied  hopes  aronnd  our  hearts 
Like  simmer  blossoms  sprang ! 

O,  mind  ye,  luve,  how  aft  we  left 
The  deavin’  dinsome  toun, 

To  wander  by  the  green  burnside, 

And  hear  its  waters  croon  ? 

The  simmer  leaves  hung  ower  our  heads, 
The  flowers  burst  round  our  feet, 

And  in  the  gloamin  o’  the  wood 
The  throssil  whusslit  sweet ; 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees — 

And  we,  with  Nature’s  heart  in  tune, 
Concerted  harmonies ; 

And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn 
For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o’  joy,  till  baith 
Wi’  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Tears  trinkled  doun  your  cheek 
Like  dew-beads  on  a rose,  yet  nane 
Had  ony  power  to  speak ! 

That  was  a time,  a blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 
Unsyllabled — unsung ! 

1 marvel,  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Gin  I hae  been  to  thee 

As  closely  twined  wi’  earliest  thochts 
As  ye  hae  been  to  me  ? 

O,  tell  me  gin  their  music  fills 
Thine  ear  as  it  does  mine ! 

0,  say  gin  e’er  your  heart  grows  grit 
Wi’  dreamings  o’  langsyne  ? 

I’ve  wandered  east,  I’ve  wandered  west, 

1 ’ve  borne  a weary  lot ; 

But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 

The  foijnt  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart 
Still  travels  on  its  way  ; 

And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o’  life’s  young  day. 


TO  REND,  WILLIE.  809 

O dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

Since  we  were  sindered  young 
I’ve  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 
The  music  o’  your  tongue ; 

But  I could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I die, 

Did  I but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 
O’  bygane  days  and  me ! 

William  Motherwell. 


MY  HEID  IS  LIKE  TO  REND,  WILLIE. 

My  heid  is  like  to  rend,  Willie — 

My  heart  is  like  to  break ; 

I ’m  wearin’  aff  my  feet,  Willie — 

I ’m  dyin’  for  your  sake ! 

0,  lay  your  cheek  to  mine,  Willie, 

Your  hand  on  my  briest-bane, — 

0,  say  ye  ’ll  think  on  me,  Willie, 

When  I am  deid  and  gane ! 

It ’s  vain  to  comfort  me,  Willie — 

Sair  grief  maun  lia’e  its  will ; 

But  let  me  rest  upon  your  briest 
To  sab  and  greet  my  fill. 

Let  me  sit  on  your  knee,  Willie — 

Let  me  shed  by  your  hair, 

And  look  into  the  face,  Willie, 

I never  sail  see  mair ! 

I ’m  sittin’  on  your  knee,  Willie, 

For  the  last  time  in  my  life, — 

A puir  heart-broken  thing,  Willie, 

A mither,  yet  nae  wife. 

Ay,  press  your  hand  upon  my  heart, 

And  press  it  mair  and  mair, — 

Or  it  will  burst  the  silken  twine, 

Sae  strang  is  its  despair. 

O,  wae ’s  me  for  the  hour,  Willie, 

When  we  thegither  met, — 

O,  wae ’s  me  for  the  time,  Willie, 

That  our  first  tryst  was  set ! 

O,  wae ’s  me  for  the  loanin’  green 
Where  we  were  wont  to  gae, — 

And  wae ’s  me  for  the  destinie 
That  gart  me  luve  thee  sae ! 


810 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


O,  dinna  mind  my  words,  Willie — 

I downa  seek  to  blame ; 

But  0,  it ’s  bard  to  live,  Willie, 

And  dree  a warld’s  shame ! 

Het  tears  are  hailin’  ower  your  cheek, 
And  hailin’  ower  your  chin : 

Why  weep  ye  sae  for  worthlessness, 

For  sorrow,  and  for  sin  ? 

I ’m  weary  o’  this  warld,  Willie, 

And  sick  wi’  a’  I see, 

I canna  live  as  I ha’e  lived, 

Or  he  as  I should  he. 

But  fauld  unto  your  heart,  Willie, 

The  heart  that  still  is  thine, — 

And  kiss  ance  mair  the  white,  white 
cheek 

Ye  said  was  red  langsyne. 

A stoun’  gaes  through  my  heid,  Willie — 
A sair  stoun’  through  my  heart ; 

O,  haud  me  up  and  let  me  kiss 
Thy  brow  ere  we  twa  pairt. 

Anither,  and  anither  yet ! — 

How  fast  my  life-strings  break ! — 
Fareweel!  fareweel!  through  yon  kirk- 
yard 

Step  lichtly  for  my  sake ! 

The  lav’rock  in  the  lift,  Willie, 

That  lilts  far  ower  our  heid, 

Will  sing  the  morn  as  merrilie 
Abune  the  clay-cauld  deid ; 

And  this  green  turf  we  ’re  sittin’  on, 

Wi’  dew-draps  shimmerin’  sheen, 

Will  hap  the  heart  that  luvit  thee 
As  warld  has  seldom  seen. 

But  O,  remember  me,  Willie, 

On  land  where’er  ye  be — 

And  O,  think  on  the  leal,  leal  heart, 

That  ne’er  luvit  ane  but  thee ! 

And  0,  think  on  the  cauld,  cauld  mools 
That  file  my  yellow  hair, — 

That  kiss  the  cheek,  and  kiss  the  chin 
Ye  never  sail  kiss  mair ! 

William  Motherwell. 


THE  ROSE  AND  THE  GAUNTLET. 

Low  spake  the  Knight  to  the  peasant-girl,— 
“I  tell  thee  sooth,  I am  belted  Earl; 

Fly  with  me  from  this  garden  small, 

And  thou  shalt  sit  in  my  castle’s  hall ; 

“Thou  shalt  have  pomp,  and  wealth,  and 
pleasure, 

Joys  beyond  thy  fancy’s  measure ; 

Here  with  my  sword  and  horse  I stand, 

To  bear  thee  away  to  my  distant  land. 

“ Take,  thou  fairest ! this  foll-blo wn  rose, 

A token  of  love  that  as  ripely  blows.” 

With  his  glove  of  steel  he  plucked  the  token, 
But  it  fell  from  his  gauntlet  crushed  and 
broken. 

The  maiden  exclaimed, — “Thou  seest,  Sir 
Knight, 

Thy  fingers  of  iron  can  only  smite ; 

And,  like  the  rose  thou  hast  tom  and  scat- 
tered, 

I in  thy  grasp  should  be  wrecked  and  shat- 
tered.” 

She  trembled  and  blushed,  and  her  glances 
fell; 

But  she  turned  from  the  Knight,  and  said, 
“Farewell ! ” 

“ Not  so,”  he  cried,  “ will  I lose  my  prize ; 

I heed  not  thy  words,  but  I read  thine  eyes.” 

He  lifted  her  up  in  his  grasp  of  steel, 

And  he  mounted  and  spurred  with  furious 
heel; 

But  her  cry  drew  forth  her  hoary  sire, 

Who  snatched  his  bow  from  above  the  fire. 

Swift  from  the  valley  the  warrior  fled, 
Swifter  the  bolt  of  the  cross-bow  sped ; 

And  the  weight  that  pressed  on  the  fleet- 
foot  horse 

Was  the  living  man,  and  the  woman’s  corse. 

That  morning  the  rose  was  bright  of  hue; 
That  morning  the  maiden  was  fair  to  view ; 
But  the  evening  sun  its  beauty  shed 
On  the  withered  leaves,  and  the  maiden  dead. 

John  Sterling. 


MAUD  MULLER. 


311 


MAUD  MULLER. 

Maud  Mullee,  on  a summer’s  day, 

Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But,  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a vague  unrest 
And  a nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 

A wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 

For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse’s  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  ask  a draught  from  the  spring  that 
flowed 

Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled 
up, 

And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

“ Thanks ! ” said  the  Judge,  “ a sweeter 
draught 

From  a fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed.” 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered 
whether 

The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul 
weather. 


And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 

And  her  graceful  ancles,  bare  and  brown, 

And  listened,  while  a pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel-eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed : “ Ah  me ! 
That  I the  Judge’s  bride  might  be ! 

“ He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 

And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

“ My  father  should  wear  a broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a painted  boat. 

“I ’d  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay 
And  the  baby  should  have  a new  toy  each 
day. 

“And  I’d  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 
poor, 

And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door.” 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still : 

“ A form  more  fair,  a face  more  sweet, 

Ne’er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

“And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

“ Would  she  were  mine,  and  I to-day, 

Like  her,  a harvester  of  hay. 

“No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

“ But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 

And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loving  words.” 

But  he  thought  of  his  sister,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 

And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 

When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love  tune ; 


312 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a wife  of  richest  dower, 

Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth’s  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a bright  picture  come  and  go ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller’s  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 

He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms ; 

And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a secret 
pain, 

“ Ah,  that  I were  free  again ! 

“ Free  as  when  I rode  that  day 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay.” 

She  wedded  a man  unlearned  and  poor, 

And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  child-birth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a rider  draw  his  rein, 

And,  gazing  down  with  a timid  grace, 

She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a spinnet  turned, 

The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned ; 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o’er  pipe  and  mug, 


A manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 

And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  “ It  might  have  been.” 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 

God  pity  them  both ! and  pity  us  all, 

Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  Youth  recall ; 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these:  “It  might  have 
been ! ” 

Ah,  well ! for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Boll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  when  the 
cows  come  hame, 

When  a’  the  weary  warld  to  quiet  rest  arc 
gane; 

The  woes  of  my  heart  fa’  in  showers  frae  my 
ee, 

Unkenned  by  my  gudeman,  who  soundly  sleeps 
by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo’d  me  weel,  and  sought  me 
for  his  bride ; 

But,  saving  ae  crown  piece,  he ’d  naething  else 
beside. 

To  make  the  crown  a pound,  my  Jamie  gaed 
to  sea ; 

And  the  crown  and  the  pound,  O they  were 
baith  for  me ! 

Before  he  had  been  gane  a twelvemonth  and 
a day, 

My  father  brak  his  arm,  our  cow  was  stown 
away; 

My  mother  she  fell  sick — my  Jamie  was  at 
sea — 

And  Auld  Robin  Gray,  O ! he  came  a-court- 
ing  me. 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE. 


318 


My  father  cou’dna  work — my  mother  cou’dna 
spin; 

I toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I 
cou’dna  win ; 

Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and,  wi’ 
tears  in  his  ee, 

Said,  “ Jenny,  0 ! for  their  sakes,  will  you 
marry  me ! ” 

My  heart  it  said  na,  and  I looked  for  Jamie 
back; 

But  hard  blew  the  winds,  and  his  ship  was  a 
wrack ; 

His  ship  it  was  a wrack ! Why  didna  Jamie 
dee? 

Or,  wherefore  am  I spared  to  cry  out,  Woe 
is  me ! 

My  father  argued  sair — my  mother  didna 
speak, 

But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was 
like  to  break ; 

They  gied  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was 
in  the  sea ; 

And  so  Auld  Robin  Gray,  he  was  gudeman 
to  me. 

I hadna  been  his  wife,  a week  but  only  four, 

When,  mournfu’  as  I sat  on  the  stane  at  my 
door, 

I saw  my  Jamie’s  ghaist — I cou’dna  think  it 
he, 

Till  he  said,  “I’m  come  hame,  my  love,  to 
marry  thee ! ” 

0 sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  say  of  a’ ; 

Ae  kiss  we  took,  nae  mair — I bade  him  gang 

awa. 

1 wish  that  I were  dead,  but  I ’m  no  like  to 

dee ; 

For  0,  I am  but  young  to  cry  out,  Woe  is 
me ! 

I gang  like  a ghaist,  and  I carena  much  to 
spin, 

I darena  think  o’  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a 
sin ; 

But  I will  do  my  best  a gude  wife  aye  to  be, 

For  Auld  Robin  Gray,  O!  he  is  sae  kind 
to  me. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard.  I 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE. 

Put  the  broidery-frame  away, 

For  my  sewing  is  all  done ! 

The  last  thread  is  used  to-day, 

And  I need  not  join  it  on. 

Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon, 

I am  weary ! I have  sewn, 

Sweet,  for  thee,  a wedding-gown. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed, 

And  stand  near  me,  dearest-sweet! 

Do  not  shrink  nor  be  afraid, 

Blushing  with  a sudden  heat ! 

No  one  standeth  in  the  street ! — 

By  God’s  love  I go  to  meet, 

Love  I thee  with  love  complete. 

Lean  thy  face  down ! drop  it  in 
These  two  hands,  that  I may  hold 

’Twixt  their  palms  thy  cheek  and  chin, 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold. 

’T  is  a fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth — 

Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  first  youth ! 

Thou  art  younger  by  seven  years — 

Ah ! — so  bashful  at  my  gaze 

That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears, 

Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise  ? 

I would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 
Which  thy  shyness  feels  as  such — 

Dost  thou  mind  me,  dear,  so  much 

Have  I not  been  nigh  a mother 
To  thy  sweetness — tell  me,  dear 

Have  we  not  loved  one  another 
Tenderly,  from  year  to  year ; 

Since  our  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  accents  undefiled, 

“ Child,  be  mother  to  this  child ! ” 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven, 

Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea, 

And  be  witness  I have  given 
All  the  gifts  required  of  me ; — 

Hope  that  blessed  me,  bliss  that  crowned, 
Love  that  left  me  with  a wound, 

Life  itself,  that  turned  around ! 


314 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind, 

Thou  art  standing  in  the  room, — 

In  a molten  glory  shrined, 

That  rays  off  into  the  gloom ! 

But  thy  smile  is  bright  and  bleak, 

Like  cold  waves — I cannot  speak ; 

I sob  in  it,  and  grow  weak. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 

One  hour  longer  from  my  soul — 

For  I still  am  thinking  of 

Earth’s  warm-heating  joy  and  dole ! 

On  my  finger  is  a ring 
"Which  I still  see  glittering, 

When  the  night  hides  every  thing. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale ! 

Ah,  I have  a wandering  brain — 

But  I lose  that  fever-hale, 

And  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 
Lean  down  closer — closer  still ! 

I have  words  thine  ear  to  fill, — 

And  would  kiss  thee  at  my  will. 

Dear,  I heard  thee  in  the  spring, 

Thee  and  Bobert — through  the  trees, — 
When  we  all  went  gathering 
Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 

Do  not  start  so ! think  instead 
How  the  sunshine  overhead 
Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 

What  a day  it  was,  that  day ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave  and  throb  away, 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky ; 

And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 
In  the  glory’s  golden  flood, 

Audibly  did  hud — and  hud ! 

Through  the  winding  hedgerows  green, 
How  we  wandered,  I and  you, — 

With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in, 

And  the  gates  that  showed  the  view — 
How  we  talked  there ! thrushes  soft 
Sang  our  pauses  out, — or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them,  from  the  croft. 

Till  the  pleasure,  grown  too  strong, 

Left  me  muter  evermore ; 

And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 

I walked  out  of  sight,  before; 


And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  fond, 

Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 

On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

I sat  down  beneath  the  beech 
Which  leans  over  to  the  lane, 

And  the  far  sound  of  your  speech 
Did  not  promise  any  pain ; 

And  I blessed  you  full  and  free, 

With  a smile  stooped  tenderly 
O’er  the  May-flowers  on  my  knee. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 
As  the  speakers  drew  more  near — 

Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I heard 
What  you  wished  me  not  to  hear. 

Do  not  weep  so — do  not  shake — 

Oh, — I heard  thee,  Bertha,  make 
Good  true  answers  for  my  sake. 

Yes,  and  he  too ! let  him  stand 
In  thy  thoughts,  untouched  by  blame. 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 
He  had  claimed  with  hasty  claim ! 
That  was  wrong  perhaps — hut  then 
Such  things  he — and  will,  again ! 
Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 

Had  he  seen  thee,  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone  ? 

Thou  wert  absent — sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmouth  town. 

When  he  saw  thee,  who  art  best 
Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 

He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

Could  we  blame  him  with  grave  words, 
Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  might  ? 

Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 
Flying  straightway  to  the  light ; 

Mine  are  older. — Hush ! — look  out — 
Up  the  street ! Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 

And  that  hour — beneath  the  beech — 
When  I listened  in  a dream, 

And  he  said,  in  his  deep  speech, 

That  he  owed  me  all  esteem — 

Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 
With  a dim,  dilating  pain, 

Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain — 


BERTHA  IN  THE  LANE. 


316 


I feU  flooded  with  a dark, 

In  the  silence  of  a swoon — 

When  I rose,  still,  cold  and  stark, 
There  was  night — I saw  the  moon : 
And  the  stars,  each  in  its  place, 

And  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I was. 

And  I walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself  when  I could  stand — 

And  I pitied  my  own  heart, 

As  if  I held  it  in  my  hand — 
Somewhat  coldly — with  a sense 
Of  fulfilled  benevolence, 

And  a “ Poor  thing  ” negligence. 

And  I answered  coldly  too, 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door ; 

And  I only  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor ; 

And  the  flowers  I hade  you  see, 
Were  too  withered  for  the  bee — 

As  my  life,  henceforth,  for  me. 

Do  not  weep  so — dear — heart-warm ! 

It  was  best  as  it  befell ! 

If  I say  he  did  me  harm, 

I speak  wild — I am  not  well. 

All  his  words  were  kind  and  good — 
He  esteemed  me ! Only  blood 
Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood. 

Then  I always  was  too  grave — 

Liked  the  saddest  ballads  sung — 

With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 
In  our  faces,  who  die  young. 

I had  died,  dear,  all  the  same — 
Life’s  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other, 

Thou  and  I ; that  none  could  guess 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 

But  for  mutual  tenderness. 

Thou  art  rose-lined  from  the  cold, 
And  meant,  verily,  to  hold 
Life’s  pure  pleasures  manifold. 

I am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a rose-tree’s  root ! 

Whosoe’er  would  reach  the  rose, 
Treads  the  crocus  underfoot — 


I,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn  tree — 
Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee ! 

Fit,  that  I be  plucked  for  thee. 

Yet  who  plucks  me  ? — no  one  mourns — 
I have  lived  my  season  out — 

And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns 
Which  I could  not  live  without. 
Sweet,  be  merry ! How  the  light 
Comes  and  goes ! If  it  be  night, 

Keep  the  candles  in  my  sight. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 

Look  out  quickly.  Yea,  or  nay  ? 
Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 
Some  last  word  that  I might  say. 

Nay  ? So  best ! — So  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road — 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet — 

When  I wear  the  shroud  I made, 

Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat, 

And  the  rosemary  be  spread — 

That  if  any  friend  should  come, 

(To  see  thee,  sweet !)  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 
On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 

Which  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 

I can  still  see  glittering. 

Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight, 

In  the  grave — where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night.  # 

On  that  grave,  drop  not  a tear! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Through  the  woollen  shroud  I wear 
I shall  feel  it  on  my  face. 

Rather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 
Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun — 

Or  forget  me — smiling  on ! 

Art  thou  near  me  ? nearer  ? so ! 

Kiss  me  close  upon  the  eyes, 

That  the  earthly  light  may  go 
Sweetly  as  it  used  to  rise — 

When  I watched  the  morning  gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the  way 
Ho  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 


316 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


So — no  more  vain  words  be  said ! 

The  hosannas  nearer  roll — 

Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  dead — 

I am  death-strong  in  my  soul ! 

Mystic  Dove  alit  on  cross, 

Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow- wind  above  loss ! 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 
Love’s  divine  self-abnegation — 
Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending, 

And  absorb  the  poor  libation ! 

Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher, 

Up  through  angels’  hands  of  fire ! — 

I aspire  while  I expire ! — 

Elizabeth  Baeeett  Bbowning. 


THEM. 

I give  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour, 

That  old-time  princes  asked  in  vain, 

And  pined  for  in  their  useless  power, 

Or  died  of  passion’s  eager  pain. 

I give  thee  love  as  God  gives  light, 

Aside  from  merit,  or  from  prayer, 
Rejoicing  in  its  own  delight, 

And  freer  than  the  lavish  air. 

I give  thee  prayers,  like  jewels  strung 
On  golden  threads  of  hope  and  fear ; 

And  tenderer  thoughts  than  ever  hung 
In  a sad  angel’s  pitying  tear. 

As  earth  pours  freely  to  the  sea 
Her  thousand  streams  of  wealth  untold, 

So  flows  my  silent  life  to  thee, 

Glad  that  its  very  sands  are  gold. 

What  care  I for  thy  carelessness? 

I give  from  depths  that  overflow, 
Regardless  that  their  power  to  bless 
Thy  spirit  cannot  sound  or  know. 

Far  lingering  on  a distant  dawn 
My  triumph  shines,  more  sweet  than  late ; 
When  from  these  mortal  mists  withdrawn, 
Thy  heart  shall  know  me — I can  wait. 

Rose  Tebby. 


THE  STATUE  AMD  THE  BUST. 

There’s  a palace  in  Florence,  the  world 
knows  well, 

And  a statue  watches  it  from  the  square  ; 
And  this  story  of  both  do  the  townsmen  tell 

Ages  ago,  a lady  there, 

At  the  furthest  window  facing  the  east, 
Asked,  “Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?” 

The  bridesmaids’  prattle  around  her  ceased ; 
She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  in- 
creased— 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 

As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a breath 
Whispered,  “The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand.” 

That  self-same  instant,  underneath, 

The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 

Empty  and  fine  like  a swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back — “ Who  is  she  ? ” 
— “A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day.” 

Hair  in  heaps  laid  heavily 
Over  a pale  brow  spirit- pure, 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree. 

Crisped  like  a war-steed’s  encolure — 

Which  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo ! a blade  for  a knight’s  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a man, — 

The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a lover  can ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes, — 
The  past  was  a sleep,  and  her  life  began. 

As  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A feast  was  held  that  self-same  night 
In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  Palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a crime  which  may  God  requite ! 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 


317 


To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic’s  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue’s  face  in  the 
square) 

Turned,  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude, 

At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 
A single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a man  sub- 
dued— 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a minute  can  lovers  exchange  a word  ? 

If  a word  did  pass,  which  I do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.  At  day’s  brink, 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a bed-chamber  by  a taper’s  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 
Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a certain  window  facing  the  east 
She  might  watch  like  a convent’s  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a feast, 
And  a feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

“Freely  I choose,  too,”  said  the  bride; 
“Your  window  and  its  world  suffice.” 

So  replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  re- 
plied— 

“ If  I spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a damned  soul  looks  on  Paradise ! 

“ I fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 

Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I count  another  ave-bell. 


“ ’T  is  only  the  coat  of  a page  to  borrow, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a horse-boy’s  trim, 

And  I save  my  soul — but  not  to-morrow 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) — 
“ My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state  : 

I must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

“Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait ? 

Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I know— 

We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate.” 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.  Just  so ! 
So  we  resolve  on  a thing  and  sleep — 

So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  “Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I will  drain  it  deep.” 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 
As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke’s  alcove) 

And  smiled,  “ ’T  was  a very  funeral 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours, — 

A shame  to  efface,  whate’er  befall ! 

“ What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 
And  let  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night’s  fault  with  this  morning’s 
flowers?” 

The  bridegroom,  not  a thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 

Said,  “ Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean ! 

“ Alas ! my  lady  leaves  the  south. 

Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a menace  to  her  tender  youth. 

“ NTo  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 

If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 

To  avert  the  flower  of  life’s  decline.” 

Quoth  the  Duke,  “A  sage  and  a kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring — 

Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here ! ” 


318 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


And  then  to  himself — “Which  night  shall 
bring 

Thy  bride  to  her  lover’s  embraces,  fool — 

Or  I am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  his  king ! 

“Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a night,  nor 
cool — 

For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France, 
Whose  heart  I unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

“ I need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 
To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady’s  countenance — 

“For  I ride — what  should  I do  but  ride ? 

And  passing  her  palace,  if  I list, 

May  glance  at  its  window — well  betide ! ” 

So  said,  so  done ; nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow — 

No  morrow’s  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 

With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love’s  brief  morning  wore, 

With  a gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth — 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed 

t>y- 

Meantime  they  could  profit  in  winter’s  dearth 
By  winter’s  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose. 

The  world  and  its  ways  have  a certain  worth; 

And  to  press  a point  while  these  oppose 
Were  a simple  policy — best  wait, 

And  lose  no  friends  and  gain  no  foes. 

Meanwhile,  worse  fates  than  a lover’s  fate 
Who  daily  may  ride,  and  lean,  and  look, 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate ! 


And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 

Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook. 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was 
done, 

And  she  turned  from  it  all  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

Weeks  grew  months,  years — gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  youth  and  love, 

And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a 
dream. 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above,— * 
But  who  can  take  a dream  for  truth? 

O,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  Remove ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent’s  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 

So  hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass— 

“ Summon  here,”  she  suddenly  said, 

“Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

“Him,  the  carver,  a hand  to  aid, 

Who  moulds  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 
And  fixes  a beauty  never  to  fade. 

“ Let  Robbia’s  craft,  so  apt  and  strange, 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 

And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

“Make  me  a face  on  the  window  there 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 

My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square ! 

“And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

“ To  say, — ‘ What  matters  at  the  end  ? 

I did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm, 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.’ 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 


319 


“ Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip’s  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

“ Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine  ? 

A lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I trow.” 

But  long  ere  Kobbia’s  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine — 

(With,  leaning  out  of  a bright  blue  space, 

As  a ghost  might  from  a chink  of  sky, 

The  passionate  pale  lady’s  face — 

Eyeing  ever  with  earnest  eye, 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless 
stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  passes  by — ) 

The  Duke  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence : “ So,  my  dream  escapes ! 

Will  its  record  stay  ? ” And  he  bade  them 
fetch 

Some  subtle  fashioner  of  shapes — 

“Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes  ? 

“ John  of  Douay  shall  work  my  plan, 

Mould  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 

Alive — (the  subtle  artisan ! ) 

“ In  the  very  square  I cross  so  oft ! 

That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a purpose  soft — 

“ While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  are  brave 
in  bronze — 

Admire  and  say,  ‘ When  he  was  alive, 

I How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once ! ’ 

“ And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I contrive 
To  listen  meanwhile  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 
At  indolence  which  aspires  to  strive.” 


So ! while  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 


Still,  I suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 

Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Surely  they  see  not  Cod,  I know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  His, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — 
Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  cut  his  way  thro’  the  world  to  this. 

I hear  your  reproach — “But  delay  was  best, 
For  their  end  was  a crime ! ” — O,  a crime 
will  do 

As  well,  I reply,  to  serve  for  a test, 

As  a virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a moment’s  view. 

Must  a game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf? 
Where  a button  goes,  ’t  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham. 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I submit, 

When  your  table ’s  a hat,  and  your  prize,  a 
dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 
Venture  as  truly,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it. 

If  you  choose  to  play — is  my  principle ! 

Let  a man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life’s  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 
As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  ; 

And  the  sin  I impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Was  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a crime,  I say. 
You  of  the  virtue,  (we  issue  join) 

How  strive  you  ? De  te,  f alula  ! 

Robert  Browning. 


320 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


ALLAN  PERCY. 

It  was  a beauteous  lady  richly  dressed ; 

Around  her  neck  are  chains  of  jewels  rare ; 

A velvet  mantle  shrouds  her  snowy  breast, 

And  a young  child  is  softly  slumbering 
there. 

In  her  own  arms,  beneath  that  glowing  sun, 

She  bears  him  onward  to  the  greenwood 
tree ; 

Is  the  dun  heath,  thou  fair  and  thoughtless 
one, 

The  place  where  an  Earl’s  son  should 
cradled  be  ? 

Lullaby ! 

Though  a proud  Earl  be  father  to  my  child, 

Yet  on  the  sward  my  blessed  babe  shall 
lie ; 

Let  the  winds  lull  him  with  their  murmurs 
wild, 

And  toss  the  green  boughs  upward  to  the 
sky. 

Well  knows  that  Earl  how  long  my  spirit 
pined. 

I loved  a forester,  glad,  bold,  and  free ; 

And  had  I wedded  as  my  heart  inclined, 

My  child  were  cradled  ’neath  the  green- 
wood tree. 

Lullaby! 

Slumber  thou  still,  my  innocent  — mine 
own, 

While  I call  back  the  dreams  of  other 
days. 

In  the  deep  forest  I feel  less  alone 

Than  when  those  palace  splendors  mock 
my  gaze. 

Fear  not!  my  arm  shall  bear  thee  safely 
back; 

I need  no  squire,  no  page  with  bended 
knee, 

To  bear  my  baby  through  the  wildwood 
track, 

Where  Allan  Percy  used  to  roam  with 
me. 

Lullaby! 

Here  I can  sit;  and  while  the  fresh  wind 
blows, 

Waving  the  ringlets  of  thy  shining  hair, 

Giving  thy  cheek  a deeper  tinge  of  rose, 


I can  dream  dreams  that  comfort  my  de- 
spair ; 

I can  make  visions  of  a different  home, 

Such  as  we  hoped  in  other  days  might 
be; 

There  no  proud  Earl’s  unwelcome  footsteps 
come — 

There,  Allan  Percy,  I am  safe  with  thee ! 

Lullaby ! 

Thou  art  mine  own — I ’ll  bear  thee  where  I 
list, 

Far  from  the  dull  proud  tower  and  donjon 
keep ; 

From  my  long  hair  the  pearl  chains  I ’ll  un- 
twist, 

And  with  a peasant’s  heart  sit  down  and 
weep. 

Thy  glittering  broidered  robe,  my  precious 
one, 

Changed  for  a simpler  covering  shall  be ; 

And  I will  dream  thee  Allan  Percy’s  son, 

And  think  poor  Allan  guards  thy  sleep  with 
me. 

Lullaby! 

Caboline  Nobton. 


CHANGES. 

Whom  first  we  love,  you  know,  we  seldom 
wed. 

Time  rules  us  all.  And  Life,  indeed,  is  not 
The  thing  we  planned  it  out  ere  hope  was 
dead. 

And  then,  we  women  cannot  choose  our  lot. 

Much  must  be  borne  which  it  is  hard  to  bear ; 
Much  given  away  which  it  were  sweet  to  keep. 
God  help  us  all ! who  need,  indeed,  His  care. 
And  yet,  I know  the  Shepherd  loves  his  sheep. 

My  little  boy  begins  to  babble  now 
Upon  my  knee  his  earliest  infant  prayer. 

He  has  his  father’s  eager  eyes,  I know ; 

And,  they  say,  too,  his  mother’s  sunny  hair. 

But  when  he  sleeps  and  smiles  upon  my  knee, 
And  I can  feel  his  light  breath  come  and  go, 
I think  of  one  (Heaven  help  and  pity  me  !) 
Who  loved  me,  and  whom  I loved,  long  ago 


INDIFFERENCE. 


321 


Who  might  have  been  ...  ah,  what  I dare 
not  think ! 

We  are  all  changed.  God  judges  for  us  best. 

God  help  us  do  our  duty,  and  not  shrink, 

And  trust  in  heaven  humbly  for  the  rest. 

But  blame  us  women  not,  if  some  appear 

Too  cold  at  times ; and  some  too  gay  and  light. 

Some  griefs  gnaw  deep.  Some  woes  are  hard 
to  bear. 

Who  knows  the  past  ? and  who  can  judge  us 
right? 

Ah,  were  we  judged  by  what  we  might  have 
been, 

And  not  by  what  we  are — too  apt  to  fall ! 

My  little  child — he  sleeps  and  smiles  between 

These  thoughts  and  me.  In  heaven  we  shall 
know  all! 

Kobebt  JBulwer  Lytton. 


EXCUSE. 

I too  have  suffered.  Yet  I know 
She  is  not  cold,  though  she  seems  so  ; 

She  is  not  cold,  she  is  not  light ; 

But  our  ignoble  souls  lack  might. 

She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die  ; 

Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 

Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 
Was  turned  upon  the  sons  of  men ; 

But  light  the  serious  visage  grew — 

She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them  through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 

Our  labored  puny  passion-fits — 

Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she ! 

Yet  oh,  that  Fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we — 

One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights — 

His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights — 

In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe ! 

21 


And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 

And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 

And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee, 
And  cry — Long,  long  I ’ve  looked  for  thee ! 

Then  will  she  weep — with  smiles,  till  then 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 

Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


INDIFFERENCE. 

1 must  not  say  that  thou  wert  true, 

Yet  let  me  say  that  thou  wert  fair. 

And  they  that  lovely  face  who  view, 

They  will  not  ask  if  truth  be  there. 

Truth — what  is  truth  ? Two  bleeding  hearts 
Wounded  by  men,  by  Fortune  tried, 
Outwearied  with  their  lonely  parts, 

Yow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear ; 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan. 

Ah,  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 

For  neither  could  subsist  alone ! 

But  souls  whom  some  benignant  breath 
Has  charmed  at  birth  from  gloom  and  care, 
These  ask  no  love — these  plight  no  faith, 

For  they  are  happy  as  they  are. 

The  world  to  them  may  homage  make, 
And  garlands  for  their  forehead  weave ; 

And  what  the  world  can  give,  they  take — 
But  they  bring  more  than  they  receive. 

They  smile  upon  the  world ; their  ears 
To  one  demand  alone  are  coy. 

They  will  not  give  us  love  and  tears — 

They  bring  us  light,  and  warmth,  and  joy. 

It  was  not  love  that  heaved  thy  breast, 
Fair  child ! it  was  the  bliss  within. 

Adieu ! and  say  that  one,  at  least, 

Was  just  to  what  he  did  not  win. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


322 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


LOYE. 

He  stood  beside  a cottage  lone, 

And  listened  to  a lute, 

One  summer  eve,  when  the  breeze  was  gone, 
And  the  nightingale  was  mute. 

The  moon  was  watching  on  the  hill ; 

The  stream  was  staid,  and  the  maples  still, 
To  hear  a lover’s  suit, 

That — half  a vow,  and  half  a prayer — 

Spoke  less  of  hope  than  of  despair ; 

And  rose  into  the  calm,  soft  air, 

As  sweet  and  low 

As  he  had  heard — 0,  woe ! 0,  woe ! 

The  flutes  of  angels,  long  ago ! 

“ By  every  hope  that  earthward  clings, 

By  faith  that  mounts  on  angel- wings, 

By  dreams  that  make  night-shadows  bright, 
And  truths  that  turn  our  day  to  night, 

By  childhood’s  smile,  and  manhood’s  tear, 

By  pleasure’s  day,  and  sorrow’s  year, 

By  all  the  strains  that  fancy  sings, 

And  pangs  that  time  so  surely  brings, — 

For  joy  or  grief,  for  hope  or  fear, 

For  all  hereafter  as  for  here, 

In  peace  or  strife,  in  storm  or  shine, 

My  soul  is  wedded  unto  thine ! ” 

And  for  its  soft  and  sole  reply, 

A murmur,  and  a sweet,  low  sigh, 

But  not  a spoken  word ; 

And  yet  they  made  the  waters  start 
Into  his  eyes  who  heard, 

For  they  told  of  a most  loving  heart, 

In  a voice  like  that  of  a bird — 

Of  a heart  that  loved,  though  it  loved  in 
vain, — 

A grieving,  and  yet  not  a pain : 

A love  that  took  an  early  root, 

And  had  an  early  doom — 

Like  trees  that  never  grow  to  fruit, 

And  early  shed  their  bloom ; 

Of  vanished  hopes  and  happy  smiles, 

All  lost  for  evermore — 

Like  ships  that  sailed  for  sunny  isles, 

But  never  came  to  shore ! 


FLORENCE  YANE. 

I loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 
Florence  Yane ; 

My  life’s  bright  dream  and  early 
Hath  come  again ; 

I renew,  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart’s  dear  pain — 

My  hopes,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Yane. 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old 

Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told — 

That  spot — the  hues  Elysian 
Of  sky  and  plain — 

I treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Yane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 
In  their  prime ; 

Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 
Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 

Thy  heart  was  as  a river 
Without  a main. 

Would  I had  loved  thee  never, 
Florence  Yane. 

But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 

Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas,  the  day ! 

And  it  boots  not  to  remember 
Thy  disdain, 

To  quicken  love’s  pale  ember, 
Florence  Yane. 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep ; 

The  daisies  love  to  dally 
Where  maidens  sleep. 

May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 
Never  wane 

Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 
Florence  Yane ! 

Philip  P.  Cook* 


Anonymous. 


LOVE’S  HISTORY. 


323 


ANNABEL  LEE. 

It  was  many  and  many  a year  ago, 

In  a kingdom  by  the  sea, 

That  a maiden  lived,  whom  you  may  know 
By  the  name  of  Annabel  Lee ; 

And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other 
thought 

Than  to  love,  and  be  loved  by  me. 

I was  a child  and  she  was  a child, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea ; 

But  we  loved  with  a love  that  was  more  than 
love, 

I and  my  Annabel  Lee — 

With  a love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of 
heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 

A wind  blew  out  of  a cloud,  chilling 
My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee ; 

So  that  her  high-born  kinsmen  came, 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 

To  shut  her  up  in  a sepulchre 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  not  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me. 

Yes ! that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know) 
In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 

That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  by 
night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the 
love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we, 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we  ; 

And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 

Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 
Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 

For  the  moon  never  beams  without  bringing 
me  dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee, 

A.nd  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I feel  the  bright 
eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee. 


And  so,  all  the  night-tide  I lie  down  by  the 
side 

Of  my  darling,  my  darling,  my  life,  and  my 
bride, 

In  her  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 


LOVE’S  HISTORY. 

By  sylvan  waves  that  westward  flow 
A hare-bell  bent  its  beauty  low, 

With  slender  waist  and  modest  brow, 
Amidst  the  shades  descending. 

A star  looked  from  the  paler  sky — 

The  hare-bell  gazed,  and  with  a sigh 
Forgot  that  love  may  look  too  high, 

And  sorrow  without  ending. 

By  casement  hid,  the  flowers  among, 

A maiden  leaned  and  listened  long ; 

It  was  the  hour  of  love  and  song, 

And  early  night-birds  calling ; 

A barque  across  the  river  drew ; — 

The  rose  was  glowing  through  and  through 
The  maiden’s  cheek  of  trembling  hue, 
Amidst  the  twilight  falling. 

She  saw  no  star,  she  saw  no  flower — 

Her  heart  expanded  to  the  hour  ; 

She  recked  not  of  her  lowly  dower 
Amidst  the  shades  descending. 

With  love  thus  fixed  upon  a height 
That  seemed  so  beauteous  to  the  sight, 
How  could  she  think  of  wrong  and  blight, 
And  sorrow  without  ending. 

The  hare-bell  drooped  beneath  the  dew, 
And  closed  its  eye  of  tender  blue ; 

No  sun  could  e’er  its  life  renew, 

Nor  star,  in  music  calling. 

The  autumn  leaves  were  early  shed ; 

But  earlier  on  her  cottage  bed 
The  maiden’s  loving  heart  lay  dead, 
Amidst  the  twilight  falling ! 

Charles  Swain. 


824 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


EVELYN  HOPE. 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 

That  is  her  hook-shelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass. 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I think ; 

The  shutters  are  shut — no  light  may  pass, 
Save  two  long  rays  thro’  the  hinge’s  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name — 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ; beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a hope  and  aim, 

Duties  enough  and  little  cares ; 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir — 

Till  God’s  hand  beckoned  unawares, 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What ! your  soul  was  pure  and  true ; 

The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew ; 

And  just  because  I was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so 
wide, 

Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I be  told  ? 
We  were  fellow-mortals — naught  beside? 

No,  indeed ! for  God  above 
Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 

And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love ; 

I claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love’s  sake ! 
Delayed,  it  may  be,  for  more  lives  yet, 
Through  worlds  I shall  traverse,  not  a 
few ; 

Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will — 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant,  I shall 
say, 

In  the  lower  earth — in  the  years  long  still — 
That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay; 

Why  your  hair  was  amber  I shall  divine, 
And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium’s 
red — 

And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one’s  stead. 


I have  lived,  I shall  say,  so  much  since  then, 
Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 

Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 
Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes ; 
Yet  one  thing — one — in  my  soul’s  full  scope, 
Either  I missed  or  itself  missed  me — 

And  I want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope ! 
What  is  the  issue  ? let  us  see ! 

I loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while ; 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank 
young  smile 

And  the  red  young  mouth  and  the  hair’s 
young  gold. 

So,  hush ! I will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep ; 

See,  I shut  it  inside  the  sweet,  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret ! go  to  sleep ; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  under- 
stand. 

Eobert  Browning. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  castle  o’  Montgomery, 

Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie ! 

There  simmer  first  unfald  her  robes 
And  there  the  langest  tarry ! 

For  there  I took  the  last  fareweel 
O’  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk ! 
How  rich  the  hawthorn’s  blossom ! 

As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 
I clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ? 

The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings, 

Flew  o’er  me  and  my  dearie ; 

For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 
Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi’  monie  a vow  and  locked  embrace 
Our  parting  was  fu’  tender ; 

And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  ourselves  asunder; 

But,  O ! fell  Death’s  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early ! 

Now  green’s  the  sod,  and  cauld’s  the  clay, 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary ! 


LAODAMIA. 


825 


O pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 
I aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly ! 

And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 
That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly ! 

And  mould’ring  now  in  silent  dust 
That  heart  that  lo’ed  me  dearly ! 

But  still  within  my  bosom’s  core 
Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

Robert  Burns. 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  less’ning  ray, 

That  lov’st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 

Again  thou  usherest  in  the  day 
My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 

0 Mary ! dear,  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I forget, 

Can  I forget  the  hallowed  grove, 

Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met, 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 

Eternity  will  not  efface, 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past — 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace ! 

Ah ! little  thought  we ’t  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 
O’erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening, 
green; 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 
Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 

Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 
Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o’er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 
And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ; 

Time  but  th’  impression  deeper  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 

My  Mary ! dear,  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 
near’st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his 
breast  ? 

Robert  Burns. 


LAODAMIA. 

“With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired ; 
And  from  th’  infernal  gods,  ’mid  shades  for- 
lorn 

Of  night,  my  slaughtered  lord  have  I re- 
quired : 

Celestial  pity  I again  implore ; — 

Restore  him  to  my  sight— great  Jove,  restore !” 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 
With  faith,  the  suppliant  heavenward  lifts 
her  hands ; 

While,  like  the  sun  emerging  from  a cloud, 
Her  count’nance  brightens  and  her  eye  ex- 
pands ; 

Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature 
grows ; 

And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O terror ! what  hath  she  perceived  ? — 0 joy ! 
What  doth  she  look  on  ? — whom  doth  she  be- 
hold? 

Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  ? 

His  vital  presence?  his  corporeal  mould? 

It  is — if  sense  deceive  her  not — ’tis  he! 

And  a god  leads  him — winged  Mercury ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake — and  touched  her  with 
his  wand 

That  calms  all  fear : “Such  grace  hath  crowned 
thy  prayer, 

Laodamia!  that  at  Jove’s  command 
Thy  husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air ; 
He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours’ 
space ; 

Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face ! ” 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  queen  her  lord 
to  clasp ; 

Again  that  consummation  she  essayed ; 

But  unsubstantial  form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  phantom  parts — but  parts  to  reilnite, 

And  reassume  his  place  before  her  sight. 


L 


326 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


“ Protesilaus,  lo ! thy  guide  is  gone ! 

Confirm,  I pray,  the  vision  with  thy  voice : 
This  is  our  palace, — yonder  is  thy  throne ; 
Speak!  and  the  floor  thou  tread’ st  on  will  re- 
joice. 

Not  to  appal  me  have  the  gods  bestowed 
This  precious  boon,  and  blest  a sad  abode.” 

“ Great  Jove,  Laodamia,  doth  not  leave 
His  gifts  imperfect : — spectre  though  I be, 

I am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 

And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 
For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

“Thou  know’st,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 
That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan 
strand 

Should  die;  but  me  the  threat  could  not 
withhold — 

A generous  cause  a victim  did  demand ; 

And  forth  I leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain ; 

A self-devoted  chief,  by  Hector  slain.” 

4 Supreme  of  heroes ! bravest,  noblest,  best ! 
Thy  matchless  courage  I bewail  no  more, 
Which  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were 
deprest 

By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  fatal  shore ; 
Thou  found’st — and  I forgive  thee — here  thou 
art — 

A nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

“ But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 
Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave ; 
And  he  whose  power  restores  thee  hath  de- 
creed 

Thou  shouldst  elude  the  malice  of  the  grave ; 
Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

“No  spectre  greets  me, — no  vain  shadow 
this ; 

Come,  blooming  hero,  place  thee  by  my  side! 
Give,  on  this  well-known  couch,  one  nuptial 
kiss 

To  me,  this  day  a second  time  thy  bride!  ” 
Jove  frowned  in  heaven ; the  conscious  Parcae 
threw 

Upon  those  roseate  lips  a Stygian  hue. 


“ This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past  ; 
Nor  should  the  change  be  mourned,  even  if 
the  joys 

Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 
And  surely  as  they  vanish.  Earth  destroys 
Those  raptures  duly — Erebus  disdains ; 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide — majestic  pains. 

“ Be  taught,  0 faithful  consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion : for  the  gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul : 
A fervent,  not  ungovernable,  love. 

Thy  transports  moderate ; and  meekly  mourn 
When  I depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn — ” 

“ Ah,  wherefore  ?— Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a reanimated  corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal 
bloom  ? 

Medea’s  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years, 
And  iEson  stood  a youth  ’mid  youthful  peers. 

“ The  gods  to  us  are  merciful,  and  they 
Yet  further  may  relent ; for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the 
sway 

Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star, 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest, 

And  though  his  favorite  seat  be  feeble  wo- 
man’s breast. 

“ But  if  thou  goest,  I follow — ” “ Peace ! ” 

he  said; — 

She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and 
cheered ; 

The  ghastly  color  from  his  lips  had  fled ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien  appeared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace, 

Brought  from  a pensive,  though  a happy 
place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure ; 
No  fears  to  beat  away — no  strife  to  heal — 
The  past  un  sighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ; 
Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued ; 


LAODAMIA. 


327 


Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous,  imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty;  more  pellucid  streams, 
An  ampler  ether,  a diviner  air, 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams ; 
Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  bright- 
est day 

Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  soul  shall  enter  which  hath 
earned 

That  privilege  by  virtue. — “111,”  said  he, 

“ The  end  of  man’s  existence  I discerned, 
Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 
Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  de- 
light, 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime,  day  and 
night; 

“And  while  my  youthful  peers  before  my 
eyes 

(Each  hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 
Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports, — or,  seated  in  the  tent, 
Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  de- 
tained, 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

“The  wished-for  wind  was  given; — I then 
revolved 

The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea ; 

And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 
That,  of  a thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand — 
Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  Trojan 
sand. 

“Yet  bitter,  ofttimes  bitter,  was  the  pang 
When  of  thy  loss  I thought,  beloved  wife ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang, 
And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life — 
The  paths  which  we  had  trod — these  foun- 
tains, flowers — 

My  new-planned  cities,  and  unfinished  towers. 

“ But  should  suspense  permit  the  foe  to  cry, 

‘ Behold  they  tremble ! — haughty  their  array, 
Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  ? ’ 

In  soul  I swept  th’  indignity  away. 

Old  frailties  then  recurred ; — but  lofty 
thought, 

In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 


“And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all 
too  weak 

In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow ; 

I counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 
Our  blest  reunion  in  the  shades  below. 

Th’  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympa- 
thized : 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnized. 

“Learn,  by  a mortal  yearning,  to  ascend, — 
Seeking  a higher  object.  Love  was  given, 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end ; 
For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven, — 
That  self  might  be  annulled — her  bondage 
prove 

The  fetters  of  a dream,  opposed  to  love.” 

Aloud  she  shrieked ! for  Hermes  reappears ! 
Round  the  dear  shade  she  would  have 
clung, — ’t  is  vain ; 

The  hours  are  past, — too  brief  had  they  been 
years ; 

And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain. 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not 
earthly  day, 

He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way, 
And  on  the  palace  floor  a lifeless  corse  she 
lay. 

Thus,  all  in  vain  exhorted  and  reproved, 

She  perished ; and,  as  for  a wilful  crime, 

By  the  just  gods,  whom  no  weak  pity  moved, 
Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time, 
Apart  from  happy  ghosts,  that  gather  flowers 
Of  blissful  quiet  ’mid  unfading  bowers. 

— Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due ; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o’erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone, 
As  fondly  he  believes. — Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 
From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she 
died; 

And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 
That  Ilium’s  walls  were  subject  to  their  view, 
The  trees’  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight ; 
A constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight! 

William  Words woeth. 


828 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


LOYE’S  LAST  MESSAGES. 

Mebby,  merry  little  stream, 

Tell  me,  hast  thou  seen  my  dear  ? 

1 left  him  with  an  azure  dream, 

Calmly  sleeping  on  his  bier — 

But  he  has  fled ! 

44 1 passed  him  in  his  church-yard  bed — 
A yew  is  sighing  o’er  his  head, 

And  grass-roots  mingle  with  his  hair.” 
What  doth  he  there  ? 

O cruel ! can  he  lie  alone  ? 

Or  in  the  arms  of  one  more  dear  ? 

Or  hides  he  in  the  bower  of  stone, 

To  cause  and  kiss  away  my  fear  ? 

“ He  doth  not  speak,  he  doth  not  moan — 
Blind,  motionless  he  lies  alone ; 

But,  ere  the  grave-snake  fleshed  his  sting, 
This  one  warm  tear  he  bade  me  bring 
And  lay  it  at  thy  feet 
Among  the  daisies  sweet.” 

Moonlight  whisperer,  summer  air 
Songster  of  the  groves  above, 

Tell  the  maiden  rose  I wear 

Whether  thou  hast  seen  my  love. 

44  This  night  in  heaven  I saw  him  lie, 
Discontented  with  his  bliss  ; 

And  on  my  lips  he  left  this  kiss, 

For  thee  to  taste  and  then  to  die.” 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 


THE  FATTIEST  THING  IN  MORTAL 
EYES. 

To  make  my  Lady’s  obsequies 
My  love  a minster  wrought, 

And,  in  the  chantry,  service  there 
Was  sung  by  doleful  thought; 

The  tapers  were  of  burning  sighs, 

That  light  and  odor  gave ; 

And  sorrows,  painted  o’er  with  tears, 
Enlumined  her  grave ; 

And  round  about,  in  quaintest  guise, 

Was  carved : 44  Within  this  tomb  there  lies 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes.” 


Above  her  lieth  spread  a tomb 
Of  gold  and  sapphires  blue : 

The  gold  doth  shew  her  blessedness, 

The  sapphires  mark  her  true ; 

For  blessedness  and  truth  in  her 
Were  livelily  portrayed, 

When  gracious  God  with  both  His  hands 
Her  goodly  substance  made. 

He  framed  her  in  such  wondrous  wise, 

She  was,  to  speak  without  disguise, 

The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

No  more,  no  more : my  heart  doth  faint 
When  I the  life  recall 
Of  her,  who  lived  so  free  from  taint, 

So  virtuous  deemed  by  all — 

That  in  herself  was  so  complete, 

I think  that  she  was  ta’en 
By  God  to  deck  His  paradise, 

And  with  his  saints  to  reign ; 

Whom,  while  on  earth,  each  one  did  prize 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

But  nought  our  tears  avail,  or  cries : 

All  soon  or  late  in  death  shall  sleep ; 
Nor  living  wight  long  time  may  keep 
The  fairest  thing  in  mortal  eyes. 

Chaeles  Duke  of  Orleans  (French). 
Translation  of  Henry  Caby. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LOVE. 


Bring  flowers,  they  sang,  bring  flowers  un 
blown; 

Bring  forest  blooms  of  name  unknown ; 
Bring  budding  sprays  from  wood  and  wild, 
To  strew  the  bier  of  Love,  the  child. 

Close  softly,  fondly,  while  ye  weep, 

His  eyes,  that  death  may  seem  like  sleep ; 
And  fold  his  hands  in  sign  of  rest, 

His  waxen  hands,  across  his  breast. 

And  make  his  grave  where  violets  hide, 
Where  star-flowers  strew  the  rivulet’s  side, 
And  blue-birds, in  the  misty  spring, 

Of  cloudless  skies  and  summer  sing. 


Two  dark-eyed  maids,  at  shut  of  day, 
Sat  where  a river  rolled  away, 

With  calm,  sad  brows  and  raven  hair ; 
And  one  was  pale  and  both  were  fair. 


WINIFREDA. 


329 


Place  near  him,  as  ye  lay  him  low, 

His  idle  shafts,  his  loosened  how, 

The  silken  fillet  that  around 

His  waggish  eyes  in  sport  he  wound. 

But  we  shall  mourn  him  long,  and  miss 
His  ready  smile,  his  ready  kiss, 

The  patter  of  his  little  feet, 

Sweet  frowns  and  stammered  phrases  sweet ; 

And  graver  looks,  serene  and  high, 

A light  of  heaven  in  that  young  eye : 

All  these  shall  haunt  us  till  the  heart 
Shall  ache  and  ache — and  tears  will  start. 

The  how,  the  hand,  shall  fall  to  dust ; 

The  shining  arrows  waste  with  rust ; 

And  all  of  Love  that  earth  can  claim, 

Be  but  a memory  and  a name. 

Not  thus  his  nobler  part  shall  dwell, 

A prisoner  in  this  narrow  cell ; 

But  he  whom  now  we  hide  from  men 
In  the  dark  ground,  shall  live  again — 

Shall  break  these  clods,  a form  of  light, 

With  nobler  mien  and  purer  sight, 

And  in  th’  eternal  glory  stand, 

Highest  and  nearest  God’s  right  hand. 

William  Cullen  Bey  ant. 


LOVE  NOT. 

Love  not,  love  not ! ye  hapless  sons  of  clay ! 
Hope’s  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly 
flowers — 

Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 
Ere  they  have  blossomed  for  a few  short  hours. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not ! the  thing  ye  love  may  change ; 
The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you, 

The  kindly-beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange, 
The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not ! the  thing  you  love  may  die — 

May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth ; 
The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  o’er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not! 


Love  not ! oh  warning  vainly  said 
In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by  ; 

Love  flings  a halo  round  the  dear  one’s  head. 
Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 

Love  not ! 
Caroline  Norton. 


WINIFREDA. 

Away  ! let  nought  to  love  displeasing, 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care ; 

Let  nought  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 

Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  tho’  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood ; 

We  ’ll  shine  in  more  substantial  honors, 

And  to  be  noble  we  ’ll  be  good. 

Our  name,  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 

Will  sweetly  sound  where’er ’t  is  spoke . 

And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though  from  fortune’s  lavish  bounty 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess ; 

We  ’ll  find  within  our  pittance  plenty, 

And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  returning  season 
Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give ; 

For  we  will  live  a life  of  reason, 

And  that ’s  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age  in  love  excelling, 

We  ’ll  hand  in  hand  together  tread ; 

Sweet-smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling, 
And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I love  the  pretty  creatures, 
While  ’round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung, 

To  see  them  look  their  mother’s  features, 

To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother’s  tongue. 

And  when  with  envy,  Time,  transported, 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys, 

You’ll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted, 

And  I ’ll  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 

Anonymous. 


330 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


SONG. 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  as  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying ; 

And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  he  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he ’s  a-getting, 

The  sooner  will  his  race  he  run, 

And  nearer  he ’s  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 

When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Time  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry  ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime. 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

Kobebt  Heebick. 


BRIDAL  SONG. 

To  the  sound  of  timbrels  sweet 
Moving  slow  our  solemn  feet, 

We  have  home  thee  on  the  road 
To  the  virgin’s  blest  abode ; 

With  thy  yellow  torches  gleaming, 
And  thy  scarlet  mantle  streaming, 

And  the  canopy  above 
Swaying  as  we  slowly  move. 

Thou  has  left  the  joyous  feast, 

And  the  mirth  and  wine  have  ceased ; 
And  now  we  set  thee  down  before 
The  jealously-unclosing  door, 

That  the  favored  youth  admits 
Where  the  veiled  virgin  sits 
In  the  bliss  of  maiden  fear, 

Waiting  our  soft  tread  to  hear, 

And  the  music’s  brisker  din 
At  the  bridegroom’s  entering  in, 
Entering  in,  a welcome  guest, 

To  the  chamber  of  his  rest. 

Henby  Habt  Milman. 


EPITHALAMION. 

Ye  learned  sisters,  which  have  oftentimes 
Beene  to  the  ayding  others  to  adorne, 

Whom  ye  thought  worthy  of  your  graceful 
rymes, 

That  even  the  greatest  did  not  greatly  scorne 
To  heare  theyr  names  sung  in  your  simple 
lays, 

But  joyed  in  theyr  praise ; 

And  when  ye  list  your  own  mishaps  to 
mourne, 

Which  death,  or  love,  or  fortune’s  wreck  did 
rayse, 

Your  string  could  soone  to  sadder  tenoi 
turne, 

And  teach  the  woods  and  waters  to  lament 
Your  doleful  dreriment : 

Now  lay  those  sorrowfull  complaints  aside ; 
And,  having  all  your  heads  with  girlands 
crowned, 

Helpe  me  mine  owne  love’s  prayses  to  re- 
sound, 

Ne  let  the  same  of  any  be  envide. 

So  Orpheus  did  for  his  owne  bride ; 

So  I unto  my  selfe  alone  will  sing ; 

The  woods  shall  to  me  answer,  and  my  echo 
ring. 

Early,  before  the  world’s  light-giving  lampe 
His  golden  beame  upon  the  hils  doth  spred, 
Having  disperst  the  night’s  uncheerfull  dampe, 
Doe  ye  awake ; and  with  fresh  lustyhed 
Go  to  the  bowre  of  my  beloved  love, 

My  truest  turtle  dove ; 

Bid  her  awake ; for  Hymen  is  awake, 

And  long  since  ready  forth  his  maske  to 
move, 

With  his  bright  torch  that  flames  with  many 
a flake, 

And  many  a bachelor  to  waite  on  him, 

In  theyr  fresh  garments  trim. 

Bid  her  awake  therefore,  and  soone  her 
dight ; 

For  loe ! the  wished  day  is  come  at  last, 

That  shall,  for  all  the  pavnes  and  sorrowes 
past, 

Pay  to  her  usury  of  long  delight! 

And,  whylest  she  doth  her  dight, 


EPITHALAMION. 


331 


Doe  ye  to  tier  of  joy  and  solace  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Bring  with  you  all  the  nymphes  that  you  can 
heare, 

Both  of  the  rivers  and  the  forests  greene, 
And  of  the  sea  that  neighbours  to  her  neare ; 
All  with  gay  girlands  goodly  wel  beseene. 
And  let  them  also  with  them  bring  in  hand 
Another  gay  girland, 

For  my  fayre  love,  of  lillyes  and  of  roses, 
Bound,  true-love-wise,  with  a blue  silk 
riband. 

And  let  them  make  great  store  of  bridale 
posies ; 

And  let  them  eke  bring  store  of  other  flow- 
ers, 

To  deck  the  bridale  bowers. 

And  let  the  ground  whereas  her  foot  shall 
tread, 

For  feare  the  stones  her  tender  foot  should 
wrong, 

Be  strewed  with  fragrant  flowers  all  along, 
And  diapred  lyke  the  discolored  mead. 

Which  done,  doe  at  her  chamber  dore  awayt, 
For  she  will  waken  strayt; 

The  whiles  do  ye  this  song  unto  her  sing, 

The  woods  shall  to  you  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Ye  nymphes  of  Mulla,  which  with  carefull 
heed 

The  silver-scaly  trouts  do  tend  full  well, 

And  greedy  pikes  which  used  therein  to 
feed, 

(Those  trouts  and  pikes  all  others  doe  ex- 
cell;) 

And  ye,  likewise,  which  keepe  the  rushy 
lake, 

•Where  none  do  fishes  take — 

Bynd  up  the  locks  the  which  hang  scattered 
light, 

And  in  his  waters,  which  your  mirror  make, 
Behold  your  faces  as  the  christall  bright, 

That  when  you  come  whereas  my  love  doth 
lie 

No  blemish  she  may  spie. 

And  eke,  ye  lightfoot  mayds,  which  keepe 
the  dore 

That  on  the  hoary  mountayne  used  to  towre — 


And  the  wylde  wolves,  which  seeke  them  to 
devoure, 

With  your  steele  darts  doe  chace  from  com- 
ing neare — 

Be  also  present  here, 

To  helpe  to  decke  her,  and  to  help  to  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Wake  now,  my  love,  awake ; for  it  is  time : 
The  rosy  Morne  long  since  left  Tithon’s  bed, 
All  ready  to  her  silver  coache  to  clyme ; 

And  Phoebus  ’gins  to  shew  his  glorious  hed. 
Hark!  how  the  cheerfull  birds  do  chaunt 
theyr  laies, 

And  carroll  of  love’s  praise ! 

The  merry  larke  his  mattins  sings  aloft ; 

The  thrush  replyes;  the  mavis  descant 
playes ; 

The  ouzell  shrills ; the  ruddock  warbles  soft : 
So  goodly  all  agree,  with  sweet  consent, 

To  this  daye’s  merriment. 

Ah ! my  deare  love,  why  do  ye  sleepe  thus 
long? 

When  meeter  were  that  ye  should  now  awake, 
T’  awayt  the  comming  of  your  joyous  make; 
And  hearken  to  the  birds’  love-learned  song, 
The  dewy  leaves  among ! 

For  they  of  joy  and  pleasance  to  you  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr 
echo  ring. 

My  love  is  now  awake  out  of  her  dreame ; 
And  her  fayre  eyes,  like  stars  that  dimmed 
were 

With  darksome  cloud,  now  shew  theyr  goodly 
beame, 

More  bright  than  Hesperus  his  head  doth 
reare. 

Come  now,  ye  damsels,  daughters  of  delight, 
Helpe  quickly  her  to  dight ! 

But  first  come,  ye  fayre  Houres,  which  were 
begot 

In  Jove’s  sweet  paradise  of  Day  and  Night ; 
Which  do  the  seasons  of  the  year  allot ; 

And  all  that  ever  in  this  world  is  fayre, 

Do  make  and  still  repayre ! 

And  ye,  three  handmayds  of  the  Cyprian 
queene, 

The  which  do  still  adorn  her  beauteous 
pride, 

Helpe  to  adorn  my  beautifullest  bride ; 


332 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


And,  as  ye  her  array,  still  throw  between 
Some  graces  to  he  seene ; 

And,  as  ye  used  to  Yenns,  to  her  sing, 

The  whiles  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  yonr 
echo  ring. 

Now  is  ray  love  all  ready  forth  to  come — 
Let  all  the  virgins,  therefore,  well  awayt ; 
And  ye  fresh  boys,  that  tend  upon  her  groome, 
Prepare  yourselves ; for  he  is  comming  strayt. 
Set  all  your  things  in  seemely-good  aray, 

Fit  for  so  joyfull  day — 

The  joyfulest  day  that  ever  sun  did  see. 

Fair  Sun ! shew  forth  thy  favourable  ray, 
And  let  thy  lifull  heat  not  fervent  he, 

For  feare  of  burning  her  sunshyny  face, 

Her  beauty  to  disgrace. 

O fayrest  Phoebus ! father  of  the  Muse ! 

If  ever  I did  honour  thee  aright, 

Or  sing  the  thing  that  mote  thy  minde  de- 
light, 

I Do  not  thy  servant’s  simple  boone  refuse ; 
But  let  this  day,  let  this  one  day,  be  mine ; 
Let  all  the  rest  be  thine. 

Then  I thy  soverayne  prayeses  loud  will  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  shal  answer,  and  theyr 
echo  ring. 

Harke ! how  the  minstrels  ’gin  to  shrill  aloud 
Their  merry  musick  that  resounds  from  far — 
The  pipe,  the  tabor,  and  the  trembling  croud 
! That  well  agree  withouten  breach  or  jar. 

But  most  of  all  the  damzels  do  delite 
"When  they  their  tymbrels  smyte, 

And  thereunto  do  daunce  and  carrol  sweet, 
That  all  the  sences  they  do  ravish  quite  ; 

The  whiles  the  boyes  run  up  and  doune  the 
street, 

. Crying  aloud  with  strong,  confused  noyce, 

As  if  it  were  one  voyce  : 

Hymen,  Io  Hymen,  Hymen ! they  do  shout, 
That  even  to  the  heavens  theyr  shouting 
shrill 

Doth  reach,  and  all  the  firmament  doth  fill ; 
To  which  the  people  standing  all  about, 

As  in  appro vance,  do  thereto  applaud, 

And  loud  advaunce  her  laud ; 

And  evermore  they  Hymen,  Hymen ! sing, 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  theyr 
echo  ring. 


i Loe ! where  she  comes  along  with  portly  pace, 
Lyke  Phoebe,  from  her  chamber  of  the  east, 
Arysing  forth  to  run  her  mighty  race, 

Clad  all  in  white,  that  seems  a virgin  best. 

So  well  it  her  beseems  that  ye  would  weene 
Some  angell  she  had  beene. 

Her  long,  loose,  yellow  locks,  lyke  golden 
wyre, 

Sprinkled  with  perle,  and  perling  flowres 
atweene, 

Do  lyke  a golden  mantle  her  attyre ; 

And,  being  crowned  with  a girland  greene, 
Seem  lyke  some  mayden  queene. 

Her  modest  eyes,  abashed  to  behold 
So  many  gazers  as  on  her  do  stare, 

Upon  the  lowly  ground  affixed  are  ; 

Ne  dare  lift  up  her  countenance  too  bold, 

But  blush  to  heare  her  prayse  sung  so  loud, 
So  farre  from  being  proud. 

Nathlesse  do  ye  still  loud  her  prayse  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Tell  me,  ye  merchants’  daughters,  did  ye  see 
So  fayre  a creature  in  your  towne  before  ? 

So  sweet,  so  lovely,  and  so  mild  as  she, 
Adornd  with  beauty’s  grace  and  vertue’s 
store? 

Her  goodly  eyes  lyke  saphyres  shining  bright  y 
Her  forehead  ivory  white ; 

Her  cheekes  lyke  apples  which  the  sun  hath 
rudded  ; 

Her  lips  lyke  cherries  charming  men  to  byte  , 

| Her  brest  lyke  to  a bowl  of  cream  uncrudded ; 
Her  paps  lyke  lyllies  budded ; 

Her  snowie  necke  lyke  to  a marble  towre  ; 
And  all  her  body  like  a pallace  fayre, 
Ascending  up  with  many  a stately  stayre, 

To  Honor’s  seat  and  Chastity’s  sweet  bowre. 
Why  stand  ye  still,  ye  virgins,  in  amaze 
Upon  her  so  to  gaze, 

Whiles  ye  forget  your  former  lay  to  sing, 

To  which  the  woods  did  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring  ? 

But  if  ye  saw  that  which  no  eyes  can  see, 
The  inward  beauty  of  her  lively  spright, 
Garnisht  with  heavenly  gifts  of  high  degree, 
Much  more  then  would  ye  wonder  at  that 
sight, 


EPITHALAMION. 


333 


And  stand  astonisht,  lyke  to  those  which  red 
Medusae’s  mazeful  hed. 

There  dwells  sweet  Love,  and  constant  Chas- 
tity, 

Unspotted  Fayth,  and  comely  Womanhood, 
Regard  of  Honour,  and  mild  Modesty ; 

There  Vertue  raynes  as  queene  in  royal 
throne, 

And  giveth  lawes  alone, 

The  which  the  base  affections  do  obey, 

And  yeeld  theyr  services  unto  her  will ; 

He  thought  of  things  uncomely  ever  may 
Thereto  approach,  to  tempt  her  mind  to  ill. 
Had  ye  once  seene  these  her  celestial  treas- 
ures, 

And  unrevealed  pleasures, 

Then  would  ye  wonder,  and  her  pravses 
sing, 

That  all  the  woods  should  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Open  the  temple  gates  unto  my  love! 

Open  them  wide,  that  she  may  enter  in ! 

And  all  the  postes  adorne  as  doth  behove, 
And  all  the  pillars  deck  with  girlands  trim, 
For  to  receyve  this  saynt  with  honour  dew, 
That  commeth  in  to  you ! 

With  trembling  steps  and  humble  reverence 
She  commeth  in  before  th’  Almighty’s  view. 
Of  her,  ye  virgins,  learne  obedience, — 

When  so  ye  come  into  those  holy  places, 

To  humble  your  proud  faces. 

Bring  her  up  to  th’  high  altar,  that  she  may 
The  sacred  ceremonies  there  partake, 

The  which  do  endlesse  matrimony  make ; 
And  let  the  roaring  organs  loudly  play 
The  praises  of  the  Lord  in  lively  notes ; 

The  whiles,  with  hollow  throates, 

The  choristers  the  joyous  antheme  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  their 
echo  ring. 

Behold ! whiles  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speakes, 
And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands, 
How  the  red  roses  flush  up  in  her  cheekes, 
And  the  pure  snow  with  goodly  vermill 
stayne, 

Like  crimson  dyde  in  grayne : 

That  even  the  angels,  which  continually 
About  the  sacred  altar  do  remaine, 


Forget  their  service  and  about  her  fly, 

Ofte  peeping  in  her  face,  that  seems  more 
fayre 

The  more  they  on  it  stare. 

But  her  sad  eyes,  still  fastened  on  the  ground, 
Are  governed  with  goodly  modesty, 

That  suffers  not  one  look  to  glaunce  awry 
Which  may  let  in  a little  thought  unsound. 
Why  blush  ye,  love,  to  give  to  me  your  hand, 
The  pledge  of  all  our  band ! 

Sing,  ye  sweet  angels,  alleluya  sing, 

That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring ! 

How  all  is  done:  bring  home  the  bride 
again — 

Bring  home  the  triumph  of  our  victory ; 
Bring  home  with  you  the  glory  of  her  gaine — 
With  joy ance  bring  her  and  with  jollity. 
Hever  had  man  more  joy  full  day  than  this, 
Whom  Heaven  would  heape  with  bliss. 

Make  feast  therefore  now  all  this  live-long 
day; 

This  day  for  ever  to  me  holy  is. 

Poure  out  the  wine  without  restraint  or  stay — 
Poure  not  by  cups,  but  by  the  belly-full — 
Poure  out  to  all  that  wull ! 

And  sprinkle  all  the  postes  and  walls  with 
wine, 

That  they  may  sweat  and  drunken  be  withall. 
Crowne  ye  god  Bacchus  with  a coronall, 

And  Hymen  also  crowne  with  wreaths  of 
vine; 

And  let  the  Graces  daunce  unto  the  rest, 

For  they  can  do  it  best ; 

The  whiles  the  maydens  do  theyr  carrol 
sing, 

To  which  the  woods  shall  answer,  and  theyr 
echo  ring. 

Ring  ye  the  bells,  ye  yong  men  of  the  towne, 
And  leave  your  wonted  labors  for  this  day  : 
This  day  is  holy — do  ye  write  it  downe, 

That  ye  for  ever  it  remember  may, — 

This  day  the  sun  is  in  his  chiefest  hight, 

With  Barnaby  the  bright, 

From  whence  declining  daily  by  degrees, 

He  somewhat  loseth  of  his  heat  and  light, 
When  once  the  Crab  behind  his  back  he  sees. 
But  for  this  time  it  ill-ordained  was 


334 


POEMS  OF  LOYE. 


To  choose  the  longest  day  in  all  the  yeare, 
And  shortest  night,  when  longest  fitter 
weare ; 

Yet  never  day  so  long  but  late  would  passe. 
Ring  ye  the  bells,  to  make  it  weare  away, 
And  bonfires  make  all  day ; 

And  daunce  about  them,  and  about  them  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  may  answer,  and  your 
echo  ring. 

Ah ! when  will  this  long  weary  day  have  end, 
And  lende  me  leave  to  come  unto  my  love  ? 
How  slowly  do  the  houres  theyr  numbers 
spend ! 

How  slowly  does  sad  Time  his  feathers  move ! 
Hast  thee,  0 fayrest  planet,  to  thy  home, 
Within  the  westeme  foame; 

Thy  tyred  steedes  long  since  have  need  of  rest. 
Long  though  it  be,  at  last  I see  it  gloome, 
And  the  bright  evening-star  with  golden 
crest 

Appeare  out  of  the  east. 

Fayre  child  of  Beauty ! glorious  lamp  of  Love ! 
That  all  the  host  of  Heaven  in  rankes  dost 
lead, 

And  guidest  lovers  through  the  night’s  sad 
dread, 

How  cherefully  thou  lookest  from  above, 
And  seem’st  to  laugh  atweene  thy  twinkling 
light, 

As  joying  in  the  sight 
Of  these  glad  many,  which  for  joy  do  sing, 
That  all  the  woods  them  answer,  and  their 
echo  ring. 

How  cease,  ye  damsels,  your  delights  fore- 
past; 

Enough  it  is  that  ajl  the  day  was  youres. 
How  day  is  done,  and  night  is  nighing  fast; 
How  bring  the  bryde  into  the  brydall  bowres. 
The  night  is  come,  now  soon  her  disarray, 
And  in  her  bed  her  lay  ; 

Lay  her  in  lyllies  and  in  violets ; 

And  silken  curtains  over  her  display. 

And  odourd  sheets,  and  arras  coverlets. 
Behold  how  goodly  my  faire  love  does  lye, 

In  proud  humility ! 

Like  unto  Maia,  when  as  Jove  her  took 
In  Tempe,  lying  on  the  flowry  grass, 

'Twixt  sleepe  and  wake,  after  she  weary  was, 
With  bathing  in  the  Acidalian  brooke. 


How  it  is  night — ye  damsels  may  be  gone, 
And  leave  my  love  alone ; 

And  leave  likewise  your  former  lay  to  sing : 
The  woods  no  more  shall  answer,  nor  your 
echo  ring. 

How  welcome,  Hight!  thou  night  so  long 
expected, 

That  long  daie’s  labour  doest  at  last  defray, 
And  all  my  cares  which  cruell  Love  collected, 
Hast  summd  in  one,  and  cancelled  for  aye ! 
Spread  thy  broad  wing  over  my  love  and  me, 
That  no  man  may  us  see ; 

And  in  thy  sable  mantle  us  enwrap, 

From  feare  of  perill  and  foule  horror  free. 
Let  no  false  treason  seeke  us  to  entrap, 

Hor  any  dread  disquiet  once  annoy 
The  safety  of  our  joy; 

But  let  the  night  be  calme,  and  quietsome, 
Without  tempestuous  storms  or  sad  afray : 
Lyke  as  when  Jove  with  fayre  Alcmena  lay, 
When  he  begot  the  great  Tirynthian  groome ; 
Or  lyke  as  when  he  with  thy  selfe  did  lye, 
And  begot  Majesty. 

And  let  the  mayds  and  yongmen  cease  to  sing; 
He  let  the  woods  them  answer,  nor  theyr 
echo  ring. 

Let  no  lamenting  cryes,  nor  doleful  teares, 

Be  heard  all  night  within,  nor  yet  without ; 
He  let  false  whispers,  breeding  hidden  feares, 
Breake  gentle  sleepe  with  misconceived  dout. 
Let  no  deluding  dreames,  nor  dreadful  sights, 
Make  sudden,  sad  affrights ; 

He  let  house-fyres,  nor  lightning’s  helples 
harmes, 

He  let  the  pouke,  nor  other  evill  sprights, 

He  let  mischievous  witches  with  their 
charmes, 

He  let  hob-goblins,  names  whose  sense  we 
see  not, 

Fray  us  with  things  that  be  not; 

Let  not  the  shriech-owle,  nor  the  storke,  be 
heard ; 

Hor  the  night  raven,  that  still  deadly  yells; 
Hor  damned  ghosts,  cald  up  with  mighty 
spells ; 

Hor  griesly  vultures  make  us  once  affeard. 

He  let  th’  unpleasant  quire  of  frogs  still  crok 
ing 

Make  us  to  wish  theyr  choking. 


EPITHALAMION  . 


335 


Let  none  of  these  theyr  dreary  accents  sing  ; 
Ne  let  the  woods  them  answer,  nor  theyr 
echo  ring. 

But  let  stil  Silence  true  night-watches  keepe, 
That  sacred  Peace  may  in  assurance  rayne, 
And  tymely  Sleep,  when  it  is  tyme  to  sleepe, 
May  poure  his  limbs  forth  on  your  pleasant 
playne ; 

The  whiles  an  hundred  little  winged  Loves, 
Like  divers-fethered  doves, 

Shall  fly  and  flutter  round  about  the  bed, 
And  in  the  secret  darke,  that  none  reproves, 
Their  prety  stealthes  shall  worke,  and  snares 
shall  spread 

To  filch  away  sweet  snatches  of  delight, 
Conceald  through  covert  night. 

Ye  sonnes  of  Venus  play  your  sports  at  will ! 
For  greedy  Pleasure,  carelesse  of  your  toyes, 
Thinks  more  upon  her  paradise  of  joyes 
Than  what  ye  do,  albeit  good  or  ill. 

All  night  therefore  attend  your  merry  play, 
For  it  will  soone  be  day  ; 

Now  none  doth  hinder  you,  that  say  or  sing ; 
Ne  will  the  woods  now  answer,  nor  your 
echo  ring. 

Who  is  the  same,  which  at  my  window 
peepes  ? 

Or  whose  is  that  fayre  face  that  shines  so 
bright? 

Is  it  not  Cinthia,  she  that  never  sleepes, 

But  walks  about  high  Heaven  all  the  night? 

0 ! fayrest  goddesse,  do  thou  not  envy 
My  love  with  me  to  spy ; 

For  thou  likewise  didst  love,  though  now  un- 
thought, 

And  for  a fleece  of  wool,  which  privily 
The  Latmian  shepherd  once  unto  thee 
brought, 

His  pleasures  with  thee  wrought. 

Therefore  to  us  be  favorable  now ; 

And  sith  of  women’s  labours  thou  hast  charge, 
And  generation  goodly  dost  enlarge, 

Encline  thy  will  t’  effect  our  wishfull  vow, 
And  the  chast  womb  informe  with  timely 
seed, 

That  may  our  comfort  breed : 

Till  which  we  cease  our  hopefull  hap  to  sing; 
Ne  let  the  woods  us  answer,  nor  our  echo 
ring. 


And  thou,  great  Juno!  which  with  awful 
might 

The  lawes  of  wedlock  still  dost  patronize ; 
And  the  religion  of  the  faith  first  plight 
With  sacred  rites  hast  taught  to  solemnize ; 
And  eke  for  comfort  often  called  art 
Of  women  in  their  smart — 

Eternally  bind  thou  this  lovely  band, 

And  all  thy  blessings  unto  us  impart. 

And  thou,  glad  Genius ! in  whose  gentle  hand 
The  brydale  bowre  and  geniall  bed  remaine, 
Without  blemish  or  staine ; 

And  the  sweet  pleasures  of  theyr  love’s  delight 
With  secret  ayde  dost  succour  and  supply, 
Till  they  bring  forth  the  fruitful  progeny ; 
Send  us  the  timely  fruit  of  this  same  night ; 
And  thou,  fayre  Hebe!  and  thou,  Hymen  free! 
Grant  that  it  may  so  be ; 

Till  which  we  cease  your  further  praise  to  sing, 
N e any  wood  shall  answer,  nor  your  echo  ring. 

And  ye,  high  Heavens,  the  temple  of  the  gods, 
In  which  a thousand  torches  flaming  bright 
Do  burne,  that  to  us  wretched  earthly  clods 
In  dreadful  darknesse  lend  desired  light ; 

And  all  ye  powers  which  in  the  same  re- 
mayne, 

More  than  we  men  can  fayne — 

Poure  out  your  blessing  on  us  plentiously, 
And  happy  influence  upon  us  raine, 

That  we  may  raise  a large  posterity, 

Which,  from  the  Earth  which  they  may  long 
possesse 

With  lasting  happinesse, 

Up  to  your  haughty  pallaces  may  mount ; 
And,  for  the  guerdon  of  theyr  glorious  merit, 
May  heavenly  tabernacles  there  inherit, 

Of  blessed  saints  for  to  increase  the  count. 

So  let  us  rest,  sweet  love,  in  hope  of  this, 

And  cease  till  then  our  tymely  joyes  to  sing: 
The  woods  no  more  us  answer,  nor  our  echo 
ring. 

Song  ! made  in  lieu  of  many  ornaments, 

With  which  my  love  should  duly  have  been  deckt, 
Which  cutting  off*  through  hasty  accidents, 

Ye  would  not  stay  your  due  time  to  expect, 

But  promist  both  to  recompens  ; 

Be  unto  her  a goodly  ornament, 

And  for  short  time  an  endlesse  monument ! 

Edmund  Spenser. 


836 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

I saw  two  clouds  at  morning, 

Tinged  by  the  rising  sun, 

And  in  the  dawn  they  floated  on, 

And  mingled  into  one ; 

I thought  that  morning  cloud  was  blest, 

It  moved  so  sweetly  to  the  west. 

I saw  two  summer  currents 
Flow  smoothly  to  their  meeting, 

And  join  their  course  with  silent  force, 

In  peace  each  other  greeting ; 

Calm  was  their  course  through  banks  of 
green, 

While  dimpling  eddies  played  between. 

Such  be  your  gentle  motion, 

Till  life’s  last  pulse  shall  beat ; 

Like  Summer’s  beam,  and  Summer’s  stream, 
Float  on,  in  joy,  to  meet 
A calmer  sea,  where  storms  shall  cease — 
A purer  sky,  where  all  is  peace. 

JOHN  €r.  C.  BrAINABD. 


NOT  OURS  THE  VOWS. 

Not  ours  the  vows  of  such  as  plight 
Their  troth  in  sunny  weather, 

While  leaves  are  green,  and  skies  are  bright, 
To  walk  on  flowers  together. 

But  we  have  loved  as  those  who  tread 
The  thorny  path  of  sorrow, 

With  clouds  above,  and  cause  to  dread 
Yet  deeper  gloom  to-morrow. 

That  thorny  path,  those  stormy  skies, 

Have  drawn  our  spirits  nearer ; 

And  rendered  us,  by  sorrow’s  ties, 

Each  to  the  other  dearer. 

Love,  born  in  hours  of  joy  and  mirth, 

With  mirth  and  joy  may  perish ; 

That  to  which  darker  hours  gave  birth 
Still  more  and  more  we  cherish. 

It  looks  beyond  the  clouds  of  time, 

And  through  death’s  shadowy  portal ; 

Made  by  adversity  sublime, 

By  faith  and  hope  immortal. 

Bernard  Babton. 


“MY  LOVE  HAS  TALEED.” 

My  love  has  talked  with  rocks  and  trees ; 

He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crowned — 
He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a married  life, — 

I looked  on  these  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a wife. 

These  two,  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye ; 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune ; 
Their  meetings  made  December  June ; 
Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  passed  away; 

The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 
Whate’er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone — he  sits  apart — 

He  loves  her  yet — she  will  not  weep, 
Though,  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep, 
He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind; 

He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star — 

He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far ; 

He  looks  so  cold : she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before — 

A withered  violet  is  her  bliss ; 

She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is ; 
For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows ; 

She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house ; 
And  he — he  knows  a thousand  thiDgs. 

Her  faith  is  fixed  and  cannot  move ; 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise ; 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes : 

“ I cannot  understand — I love.” 

Alfred  Tennyson 


TO  SARAH,  337 

IF  THOU  WERT  BY  MY  SIDE,  MY  LOVE. 

MY  WIFE ’S  A WINSOME  WEE  THING 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side,  my  love, 

She  is  a winsome  wee  thing, 

How  fast  would  evening  fail 

She  is  a handsome  wee  thing, 

In  green  Bengala’s  palmy  grove, 

She  is  a bonnie  wee  thing, 

Listening  the  nightingale ! 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o’  mine. 

If  thou,  my  love,  wert  by  my  side, 

I never  saw  a fairer, 

My  babies  at  my  knee, 

I never  lo’ed  a dearer, 

How  gaily  would  our  pinnace  glide 

And  neist  my  heart  I ’ll  wear  her, 

O’er  Gunga’s  mimic  sea ! 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

I miss  tbee  at  the  dawning  gray, 

She  is  a winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a handsome  wee  thing, 

When,  on  our  deck  reclined, 

She  is  a bonnie  wee  thing, 

In  careless  ease  my  limbs  I lay 

This  sweet  wee  wife  of  mine. 

And  woo  the  cooler  wind. 

I miss  thee  when  by  Gunga’s  stream 

The  warld’s  wrack,  we  share  o ’t, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o ’t, 

My  twilight  steps  I guide, 

Wi’  her  I’ll  blythely  bear  it, 

But  most  beneath  the  lamp’s  pale  beam 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

I miss  thee  from  my  side. 

Robert  Burns. 

I spread  my  books,  my  pencil  try, 
The  lingering  noon  to  cheer, 

But  miss  thy  kind,  approving  eye, 

TO  SARAH. 

Thy  meek,  attentive  ear. 

But  when  at  morn  and  eve  the  star 

One  happy  year  has  fled,  Sail, 
Since  you  were  all  my  own ; 

Beholds  me  on  my  knee, 

The  leaves  have  felt  the  autumn  blight, 

I feel,  though  thou  art  distant  far, 

The  wintry  storm  has  blown. 

Thy  prayers  ascend  for  me. 

We  heeded  not  the  cold  blast, 
Nor  the  winter’s  icy  air ; 

Then  on ! then  on ! where  duty  leads, 

For  we  found  our  climate  in  the  heart, 
And  it  was  summer  there. 

My  course  be  onward  still, 

O’er  broad  Hindostan’s  sultry  meads, 

O’er  bleak  Almorah’s  hill. 

The  summer  sun  is  bright,  Sail, 

That  course  nor  Delhi’s  kingly  gates, 
Nor  mild  Malwah  detain ; 

The  skies  are  pure  in  hue — 

But  clouds  will  sometimes  sadden  them, 

And  dim  their  lovely  blue ; 

For  sweet  the  bliss  us  both  awaits 

And  clouds  may  come  to  us.  Sail, 

By  yonder  western  main. 

But  sure  they  will  not  stay ; 
For  there ’s  a spell  in  fond  hearts 

Thy  towers,  Bombay,  gleam  bright,  they 

To  chase  their  gloom  away. 

say, 

Across  the  dark  blue  sea ; 

In  sickness  and  in  sorrow 

But  ne’er  were  hearts  so  light  and  gay 

Thine  eyes  were  on  me  still, 

As  then  shall  meet  in  thee  I 

And  there  was  comfort  in  each  glance 

Reginald  IIebf.e. 

To  charm  the  sense  of  ill : 

22' 

338 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


And  were  they  absent  now,  Sail, 

I ’d  seek  my  bed  of  pain, 

Ajid  bless  each  pang  that  gave  me  back 
Those  looks  of  love  again. 

O,  pleasant  is  the  welcome  kiss 
When  day’s  dull  round  is  o’er, 

And  sweet  the  music  of  the  step 
That  meets  me  at  the  door. 

Though  worldly  cares  may  visit  us, 

I reck  not  when  they  fall, 

While  I have  thy  kind  lips,  my  Sail, 

To  smile  away  them  all. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


THE  FIRESIDE. 

Deae  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd, 

The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly’s  maze  advance ; 

Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  called  our  choice,  we’ll  step  aside, 

Hor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we’ll  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  our  hours  employs ; 

Ho  noisy  neighbor  enters  here, 

Ho  intermeddling  stranger  near, 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize, 

Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies, 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam ; 

The  world  hath  nothing  to  bestow — 

From  our  own  selves  our  bliss  must  flow, 
And  that  dear  hut,  our  home. 

Though  fools  spurn  Hymen’s  gentle  powers, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours, 

By  sweet  experience  know 
That  marriage,  rightly  understood, 

Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 
A paradise  below. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comforts  bring ; 

If  tutored  right,  they  ’ll  prove  a spring 
Whence  pleasures  ever  rise ; 


We  ’ll  form  their  minds  with  studious  care 
To  all  that ’s  manly,  good,  and  fair, 

And  train  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage, 

They  ’ll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age, 
And  crown  our  hoary  hairs ; 

They  ’ll  grow  in  virtue  every  day, 

And  thus  our  fondest  loves  repay, 

And  recompense  our  cares. 

Ho  borrowed  joys,  they  ’re  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown, 

Or  by  the  world  forgot ; 

Monarch s ! we  envy  not  your  state — 

We  look  with  pity  on  the  great, 

And  bless  our  humble  lot. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed ; 

But  then  how  little  do  we  need ! 

For  Hature’s  calls  are  few ; 

In  this  the  art  of  living  lies, 

To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We  ’ll  therefore  relish  with  content 
Whate’er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Hor  aim  beyond  our  power; 

For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 

’T  is  prudence  to  eDjoy  it  all, 

Hor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resigned  when  ills  betide, 

Patient  when  favors  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favors  given — 

Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom’s  part, 

This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  Heaven. 

We  ’ll  ask  no  long-protracted  treat, 

Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet ; 

But,  when  our  feast  is  o’er, 

Grateful  from  table  we  ’ll  arise, 

Hor  grudge  our  sons,  with  envious  eyes, 
The  relics  of  our  store. 

Thus  hand  in  hand  through  life  we  ’ll  go ; 
Its  chequered  paths  of  joy  and  woe 
With  cautious  steps  we  ’ll  tread ; 

Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a tear, 
Without  a trouble,  or  a fear, 

And  mingle  with  the  dead ; 


THE  POET’S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 


339 


While  conscience,  like  a faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend, 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath — 

Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 

Like  a kind  angel  whisper  peace, 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 

Nathaniel  Cotton. 


THE  POET’S  BRIDAL-DAY  SONG. 

O,  my  love ’s  like  the  steadfast  sun, 

Or  streams  that  deepen  as  they  run ; 

Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  forty  years, 

Nor  moments  between  sighs  and  tears, 

Nor  nights  of  thought,  nor  days  of  pain, 

Nor  dreams  of  glory  dreamed  in  vain ; 

Nor  mirth,  nor  sweetest  song  that  flows 
To  sober  joys  and  soften  woes, 

Can  make  my  heart  or  fancy  flee, 

One  moment,  my  sweet  wife,  from  thee. 

Even  while  I muse,  I see  thee  sit 
In  maiden  bloom  and  matron  wit ; 

Fair,  gentle  as  when  first  I sued, 

Ye  seem,  but  of  sedater  mood ; 

Yet  my  heart  leaps  as  fond  for  thee 
As  when,  beneath  Arbigland  tree, 

We  stayed  and  wooed,  and  thought  the  moon 
Set  on  the  sea  an  hour  too  soon ; 

Or  lingered ’mid  the  falling  dew, 

When  looks  were  fond  and  words  were  few. 

Though  I see  smiling  at  thy  feet 
Five  sons  and  ae  fair  daughter  sweet, 

And  time  and  care  and  birthtime  woes 
Have  dimmed  thine  eye  and  touched  thy  rose, 
To  thee,  and  thoughts  of  thee,  belong 
Whate’er  charms  me  in  tale  or  song. 

When  words  descend  like  dews,  unsought, 
With  gleams  of  deep,  enthusiast  thought, 

And  Fancy  in  her  heaven  flies  free, 

They  come,  my  love,  they  come  from  thee. 

0,  when  more  thought  we  gave,  of  old, 

To  silver,  than  some  give  to  gold, 

’T  was  sweet  to  sit  and  ponder  o’er 
How  we  should  deck  our  humble  bower ; 

’T  was  sweet  to  pull,  in  hope,  with  thee, 

The  golden  fruit  of  Fortune’s  tree  ; 


And  sweeter  still  to  choose  and  twine 
A garland  for  that  brow  of  thine — 

A song- wreath  which  may  grace  my  Jean, 
While  rivers  flow,  and  woods  grow  green. 

At  times  there  come,  as  come  there  ought, 
Grave  moments  of  sedater  thought, 

When  Fortune  frowns,  nor  lends  our  night 
One  gleam  of  her  inconstant  light ; 

And  Hope,  that  decks  the  peasant’s  bower, 
Shines  like  a rainbow  through  the  shower ; 

0 then  I see,  while  seated  nigh, 

A mother’s  heart  shine  in  thine  eye, 

And  proud  resolve  and  purpose  meek, 
Speak  of  thee  more  than  words  can  speak. 

1 think  this  wedded  wife  of  mine, 

The  best  of  all  that’s  not  divine. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


THE  POET’S  SONG  TO  HIS  WIFE. 

How  many  summers,  love, 

Have  I been  thine  ? 

How  many  days,  thou  dove, 

Hast  thou  been  mine? 

Time,  like  the  winged  wind 
When ’t  bends  the  flowers, 

Hath  left  no  mark  behind, 

To  count  the  hours ! 

Some  weight  of  thought,  though  loth. 
On  thee  he  leaves ; 

Some  lines  of  care  round  both 
Perhaps  he  weaves ; 

Some  fears, — a soft  regret 
For  joys  scarce' known; 

Sweet  looks  we  half  forget; — 

All  else  is  flown ! 

Ah ! — With  what  thankless  heart 
I mourn  and  sing ! 

Look,  where  our  children  start, 

Like  sudden  Spring ! 

With  tongues  all  sweet  and  low, 

Like  a pleasant  rhyme, 

They  tell  how  much  I owe 
To  thee  and  Time ! 


Barry  Cornwall. 


340 


POEMS  OF  LOVE. 


THE  BLISSFUL  DAY. 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet; 

Tbo’  winter  wild  in  tempest  toiled, 

Ne’er  summer  sun  was  half  sae  sweet. 
Than  a’  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o’er  the  sultry  line — 

Than  kingly  robes,  and  crowns  and  globes, 
Heaven  gave  me  more;  it  made  thee  mine. 

While  day  and  night  can  bring  delight. 

Or  nature  aught  of  pleasure  give — 
While  joys  above  my  mind  can  move, 

For  thee,  and  thee  alone,  I live ; 

When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 
Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part, 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breaks  my  heart. 

Robert  Borns. 


JOHN  ANDERSON. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonny  brow  was  brent; 

But  now  your  brow  is  bald  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snow ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 

And  mony  a canty  day,  John, 

We’ve  had  wi’  ane  anither; 

Now  we  maun  totter  doun,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we’ll  go, 

And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

Robert  Berks. 


PART  V 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


Patriots  have  toiled,  and  in  their  country’s  cause 
Bled  nobly ; and  their  deeds,  as  they  deserve, 
Receive  proud  recompense.  We  give  in  charge 
Their  names  to  the  sweet  lyre.  The  historic  Muse. 
Proud  of  the  treasure,  marches  with  it  down 
To  latest  times ; and  Sculpture,  in  her  turn, 

Gives  bond  in  stone  and  ever-during  brass 
To  guard  them,  and  to  immortalize  her  trust. 

Cowpeb. 


0 courage  ! there  he  comes ; 

What  ray  of  honor  round  about  him  looms ! 

0,  what  new  beams  from  his  bright  eyes  do  glance ! 
0 princely  port ! presageful  countenance 
Of  hap  at  hand ! He  doth  not  nicely  prank 
In  clinquant  pomp,  as  some  of  meanest  rank, 

But  armed  in  steel ; that  bright  habiliment 
Is  his  rich  valor’s  sole  rich  ornament. 

Joshua  Sylvester. 


En  avantl  marchons 
Contre  leurs  canons ! 

A travers  le  fer,  le  feu  des  battaillons, 
Courons  a la  victoire ! 

Casimir  de  la  Yigne. 


The  perfect  heat  of  that  celestial  fire, 

That  so  inflames  the  pure  heroic  breast, 

And  lifts  the  thought,  that  it  can  never  rest 
TiJ.1  it  to  Heaven  attain  its  prime  desire. 

Lord  Thurlow. 


. 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION 


HORATIUS. 

A.  LAY  MADE  ABOUT  THE  YEAE  OF  ROME  COCLX. 

I. 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium, 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin 
Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  it, 

And  named  a trysting  day, 

And  hade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 

To  summon  his  array. 

n. 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north 
The  messengers  ride  fast, 

And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 
Have  heard  the  trumpet’s  blast. 

Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 
Who  lingers  in  his  home, 

When  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Is  on  the  march  for  Rome ! 

hi. 

The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 
Are  pouring  in  amain 
From  many  a stately  market-place, 

From  many  a fruitful  plain, 

From  many  a lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 

Like  an  eagle’s  nest  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine; 


IV. 

From  lordly  Yolaterrae, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 

Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 
For  godlike  kings  of  old ; 

From  sea-girt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 

Sardinia’s  snowy  mountain-tops 
Fringing  the  southern  sky; 

v. 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisae, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 

Where  ride  Massilia’s  triremes, 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves; 

From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 
Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers ; 

From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 
Her  diadem  of  towers. 

VI. 

Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 
Drop  in  dark  Auser’s  rill ; 

Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 
Of  the  Ciminian  hill ; 

Beyond  all  streams,  Clitumnus 
Is  to  the  herdsman  dear, 

Best  of  all  pools  the  fowler  loves 
The  great  Yolsinian  mere. 

VII. 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 
Is  heard  by  Auser’s  rill; 

No  hunter  tracks  the  stag’s  green  path 
Up  the  Ciminian  hill ; 


344 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


Un watched  along  Clitumnns 
Grazes  the  milk-white  steer ; 

Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 
In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

VIII. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap ; 

This  year,  young  hoys  in  Umbro 
Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep ; 

And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 

Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls 
Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 

IX.  \ 

There  he  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land, 

Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 
Both  morn  and  evening  stand. 

Evening  and  morn  the  thirty 
Have  turned  the  verses  o’er, 

Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 
By  mighty  seers  of  yore ; 

x. 

And  with  one  voice  the  thirty 
Have  their  glad  answer  given : 

“ Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena — 
Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven ! 

Go,  and  return  in  glory 
To  Clusium’s  royal  dome, 

And  hang  round  Nurscia’s  altars 
The  golden  shields  of  Rome ! ” 

XI. 

And  now  hath  every  city 
Sent  up  her  tale  of  men ; 

The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 

Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 
Is  met  the  great  array ; 

A proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 
Upon  the  trysting  day. 

XII. 

For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 
Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 

And  many  a banished  Roman, 

And  many  a stout  ally ; 


And  with  a mighty  following, 

To  join  the  muster,  came 
The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latian  name. 

XIII. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 
Was  tumult  and  affright ; 

From  all  the  spacious  champaign 
To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 

A mile  around  the  city 
The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways ; 

A fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

XIV. 

For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 

And  mothers,  sobbing  over  babes 
That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 

And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 
High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 

And  troops  of  sunburned  husbandmen 
With  reaping-hooks  and  staves, 

xv. 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 
Laden  with  skins  of  wine, 

And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 
And  endless  herds  of  kine, 

And  endless  trains  of  wagons, 

That  creaked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 
Choked  every  roaring  gate. 

XVI. 

How,  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 

Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 
The  line  of  blazing  villages 
Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 

The  Fathers  of  the  city, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 

For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 
With  tidings  of  dismay. 

XVII. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 
Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands, 

Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecot, 

In  Crustumerium  stands. 


HORATIUS. 


345 


Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 
Hath  wasted  all  the  plain ; 

Astnr  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

XVIII. 

I wis,  in  all  the  Senate 
There  was  no  heart  so  hold 
But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  heat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 

Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all ; 

In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

XIX. 

They  held  a council,  standing 
Before  the  River-Gate ; 

Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 
For  musing  or  debate. 

Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly : 

“ The  bridge  must  straight  go  down ; 
For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Nought  else  can  save  the  town.” 

xx. 

Just  then  a scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear : 

“ To  arms ! to  arms ! Sir  Consul — 

Lars  Porsena  is  here.” 

On  the  low  hills  to  westward 
The  Consul  fixed  his  eye, 

And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 
Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

XXI. 

And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 
Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come ; 

And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud, 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 

Is  heard  the  trumpets’  war-note  proud, 
The  trampling  and  the  hum. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  through  the  gloom  appears, 

Far  to  left  and  far  to  right, 

In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 

The  long  array  of  helmets  bright, 

The  long  array  of  spears. 


XXII. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly, 

Above  that  glimmering  line, 

Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 
Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine ; 

But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 
Was  highest  of  them  all — 

The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

XXIII. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 
Now  might  the  burghers  know, 

By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest, 
Each  warlike  Lucumo : 

There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 
On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen ; 

And  Astur  of  the  fourfold  shield, 

Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield; 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold, 

And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 
By  reedy  Thrasymene. 

XXIV. 

Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O’erlooking  all  the  war, 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 
Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 

By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 
Prince  of  the  Latian  name ; 

And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 

XXV. 

But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 
Was  seen  among  the  foes, 

A yell  that  rent  the  firmament 
From  all  the  town  arose. 

On  the  housetops  was  no  woman 
But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed, 

No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 

XXVI. 

But  the  Consul’s  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul’s  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe  : 


346 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


“ Their  van  will  be  upon  ns 
Before  the  bridge  goes  down ; 

And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 
What  hope  to  save  the  town  ? ” 

xxvir. 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate : 

“ To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 

And  how  can  man  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds 
For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers, 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods? 

xx  vm. 

“And  for  the  tender  mother 
Who  dandled  him  to  rest, 

And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 
His  baby  at  her  breast, 

And  for  the  holy  maidens 
Who  feed  the  eternal  flame — 

To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 
That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 

XXIX. 

“ Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 
With  all  the  speed  ye  may ; 

I,  with  two  more  to  help  me, 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play — 

In  yon  strait  path  a thousand 
Hay  well  be  stopped  by  three. 

How  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ? ” 

xxx. 

Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius — 

A Ramnian  proud  was  he : 

“ Lo,  I will  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 
And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.” 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius — 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he : 

“ I will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee.” 

XXXI. 

“Horatius,”  quoth  the  Consul, 

“As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be.” 

And  straight  against  that  great  array 
Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 


For  Romans  in  Rome’s  quarrel 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 

Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

xxxrr. 

Then  none  was  for  a party — 

Then  all  were  for  the  State ; 

Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great ; 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned! 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold : 

The  Romans  were  like  brothers 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIII. 

How  Roman  is  to  Roman 
Hore  hateful  than  a foe, 

And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 

As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold; 

Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

XXXIV. 

How  while  the  Three  were  tightening 
Their  harness  on  their  backs, 

The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 
To  take  in  hand  an  axe ; 

And  Fathers,  mixed  with  Commons, 
Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 

And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

XXXV. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 

Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 
Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 
Of  a broad  sea  of  gold. 

Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 
A peal  of  warlike  glee, 

As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 
And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 
Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge’s  head, 
Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 


HORATIUS. 


347 


XXXVI. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent, 

And  looked  upon  the  foes, 

And  a great  shout  of  laughter 
From  all  the  vanguard  rose ; 

And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 
Before  that  deep  array ; 

To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they 
drew, 

And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 
To  win  the  narrow  way. 

XXXVII. 

Aunus,  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines ; 

And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 
Sicken  in  Ilva’s  mines ; 

And  Picus,  long  to  Clusium 
Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 

Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 

From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with 
towers, 

The  fortress  of  Hequinum  lowers 
O’er  the  pale  waves  of  Har. 

XXXVIII. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Aunus 
Into  the  stream  beneath ; 

Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth ; 

At  Picus  brave  Horatius 
Darted  one  fiery  thrust, 

And  the  proud  Umbrian’s  gilded  arms 
Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 

xxxix. 

Then  Ocnns  of  Falerii 
Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three ; 

And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea ; 

And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar — 

The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa’s  fen, 

And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men, 
Along  Albinia’s  shore. 

XL. 

Herminius  smote  down  Aruns ; 

Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low ; 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 
Horatius  sent  a blow : 


“Lie  there,”  he  cried,  “fell  pirate! 

Ho  more,  aghast  and  pale, 

From  Ostia’s  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 
The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark ; 

Ho  more  Campania’s  hinds  shall  fly 
To  woods  and  caverns,  when  they  spy 
Thy  thrice-accursed  sail ! ” 

XLI. 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 
Was  heard  among  the  foes; 

A wild  and  wrathful  clamor 
From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 

Six  spears’  lengths  from  the  entrance 
Halted  that  deep  array, 

And  for  a space  no  man  came  forth 
To  win  the  narrow  way. 

XLII. 

But,  hark ! the  cry  is  Astur : 

And  lo ! the  ranks  divide ; 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 
Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 

Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  fourfold  shield, 

And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 
Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

XLIII. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans, 

A smile  serene  and  high ; 

He  eyed  the  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 

Quoth  he,  “ The  she-wolf ’s  litter 
Stand  savagely  at  bay ; 

But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ? ” 

XLIV. 

Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 
With  both  hands  to  the  height, 

He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 

With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 
Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 

The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh, 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh — 
The  Tuscans  raised  a joyful  cry 
To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 


348 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


XLV. 

He  reeled,  and  on  Herminins 
He  leaned  one  breathing  space — 

Then,  like  a wild-cat  mad  with  wounds, 
Sprang  right  at  Astur’s  face. 

Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helmet, 

So  fierce  a thrust  he  sped, 

The  good  sword  stood  a hand-breadth  out 
Behind  the  Tuscan’s  head. 

XLYI. 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 
Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 

As  falls  on  Mount  Ayernus 
A thunder-smitten  oak. 

Far  o’er  the  crashing  forest 
The  giant  arms  lie  spread ; 

And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

XLVH. 

On  Astur’s  throat  Horatius 
Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 

And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain, 
Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 

“ And  see,”  he  cried,  “the  welcome, 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here ! 

What  noble  Lucumo  comes  next 
To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ? ” 

xl  yul 

But  at  his  haughty  challenge 
A sullen  murmur  ran, 

Mingled  with  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread, 
Along  that  glittering  van. 

There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race ; 

For  all  Etruria’s  noblest 
Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

XLIX. 

But  all  Etruria’s  noblest 
Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses, 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three ; 

And  from  the  ghastly  entrance, 

WLere  those  bold  Romans  stood, 

All  shrank— like  boys  who,  unaware, 
Ranging  a wood  to  start  a hare, 


Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
WTiere,  growling  low,  a fierce  old  bear 
Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 

L. 

Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 
To  lead  such  dire  attack ; 

But  those  behind  cried  “ Forward ! ” 
And  those  before  cried  “Back!  ” 
And  backward  now,  and  forward, 
Wavers  the  deep  array ; 

And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel, 

And  the  victorious  trumpet-peal 
Dies  fitfully  away. 

LI. 

Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 
Strode  out  before  the  crowd ; 

Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 
And  they  gave  him  greeting  loud : 

“ Now  welcome,  welcome,  Sextus ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home ! 

Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 
Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome.” 

LII. 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city ; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead ; 

And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread ; 
And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 
Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 
Where,  wallowing  in  a pool  of  blood, 
The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 

Lin. 

But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 
Have  manfully  been  plied ; 

And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 
Above  the  boiling  tide. 

“ Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius ! ” 
Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all — 

“ Back,  Lartius ! back,  Herminius ! 
Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall ! ” 

LIV. 

Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius — 
Herminius  darted  back ; 

And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 
They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 


HORATITTS. 


349 


But  when  they  turned  their  faces, 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more  ; 

LV. 

But  with  a crash  like  thunder 
Fell  every  loosened  beam, 

And,  like  a dam,  the  mighty  wreck 
Lay  right  athwart  the  stream ; 

And  a long  shout  of  triumph 
Bose  from  the  walls  of  Borne, 

As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 
Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

LVI. 

And  like  a horse  unbroken, 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 

The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane, 

And  hurst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 
Bejoicing  to  be  free ; 

And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career, 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier, 
Bushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 

LVII. 

Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind — 

Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before, 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 

“ Down  with  him ! ” cried  false  Sextus, 
With  a smile  on  his  pale  face ; 

“ How  yield  thee,”  cried  Lars  Porsena, 
“ How  yield  thee  to  our  grace ! ” 

Lvm. 

Bound  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 
Those  craven  ranks  to  see ; 

Hought  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  nought  spake  he ; 

But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 
The  white  porch  of  his  home ; 

And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 
That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Borne : 

LIX. 

“ 0,  Tiber ! Father  Tiber ! 

To  whom  the  Bomans  pray, 

A Boman’s  life,  a Boman’s  arms, 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day ! ” 


So  he  spake,  and,  speaking,  sheathed 
The  good  sword  by  his  side, 

And,  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 
Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

LX. 

Ho  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 
Was  heard  from  either  bank, 

But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank ; 

And  when  above  the  surges 
They  saw  his  crest  appear, 

All  Borne  sent  forth  a rapturous  cry, 

And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 
Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

LXI. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  ram* 

And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing ; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 

And  heavy  with  his  armor, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows ; 

And  oft  they  thought  him  sinking, 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

• LXII. 

Hever,  I ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 

Struggle  through  such  a raging  flood 
Safe  to  the  landing  place ; 

But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 
By  the  brave  heart  within, 

And  our  good  father  Tiber 
Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

LXIII. 

“ Curse  on  him!”  quoth  false  Sextus, — 
“Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 

But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 
We  should  have  sacked  the  town !” 
“Heaven  help  him!”  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 
“ And  bring  him  safe  to  shore ; 

For  such  a gallant  feat  of  arms 
Was  never  seen  before.” 


350  POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


LXIX. 


LXIY. 

And  now  he  feels  the  bottom ; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands ; 

Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 
To  press  his  gory  hands ; 

And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping, 
And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 

He  enters  through  the  River-Gate, 
Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 

LXV. 

They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land, 

That  was  of  public  right, 

As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night ; 
And  they  made  a molten  image, 

And  set  it  up  on  high — 

And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 
To  witness  if  I lie. 

LX  VI. 

It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see, — 

Horatius  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee ; 

And  underneath  is  written, 

In  letters  all  of  gold, 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Lxvn. 

And  still  his  name  sounds  stirring 
Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 

As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 
To  charge  the  Yolscian  home ; 

And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 
For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Lxvm. 

And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

When  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 
Is  heard  amidst  the  snow ; 

When  round  the  lonely  cottage 
Roars  loud  the  tempest’s  din, 

And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 
Roar  louder  yet  within  ; 


When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 

When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 
And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 

When  young  and  old  in  circle 
Around  the  firebrands  close; 

When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 

LXX. 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 
And  trims  his  helmet’s  plume  ; 

When  the  goodwife’s  shuttle  merrily 
Goes  flashing  through  the  loom ; 

With  weeping  and  with  laughter 
Still  is  the  story  told, 

How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


THE  DESTRUCTION  OF  SENNACHE- 
RIB. 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on 
the  fold, 

And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and 
gold; 

Arid  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars 
on  the  sea, 

When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep 
Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Summer 
is  green, 

That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were 
seen; 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  Autumn 
hath  flown, 

That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and 
strown. 

For  the  Angel  of  Death  spread  his  wings  on 
the  blast, 

And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he 
passed ; 


IT  IS  GREAT  FOR  OUR  COUNTRY  TO  DIE.  851 


And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly 
and  chill, 

And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  for 
ever  grew  still ! 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all 
wide, 

But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath 
of  his  pride ; 

And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on 
the  turf, 

And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating 
surf. 

And  there  lay  the  rider  distorted  and  pale, 

With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on 
his  mail ; 

And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners 
alone, 

The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown. 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their 
wail ; 

And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 

And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by 
the  sword, 

Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the 
Lord! 

Lord  Byron. 


HARMODIUS  AND  ARISTOGEITON. 

I ’ll  wreathe  my  sword  in  myrtle  hough, 
The  sword  that  laid  the  tyrant  low, 

When  patriots  burning  to  be  free, 

To  Athens  gave  equality. 

Harmodius,  hail ! though  ’reft  of  breath, 
Thou  ne’er  slialt  feel  the  stroke  of  death ; 
The  heroes’  happy  isles  shall  be 
The  bright  abode  allotted  thee. 

I ’ll  wreathe  my  sword  in  myrtle  bough, 
The  sword  that  laid  Hipparchus  low, 
When  at  Athena’s  adverse  fane 
He  knelt,  and  never  rose  again. 

While  Freedom’s  name  is  understood, 

You  shall  delight  the  wise  and  good; 

You  dared  to  set  your  country  free, 

And  gave  her  laws  equality. 

Translation  of  Lord  Denman.  Callistratus  (Greek). 


IT  IS  GREAT  FOR  OUR  COUNTRY 
TO  DIE. 

0 ! it  is  great  for  our  country  to  die,  where 
ranks  are  contending : 

Bright  is  the  wreath  of  our  fame ; glory 
awaits  us  for  aye — 

Glory,  that  never  is  dim,  shining  on  with 
light  never  ending — 

Glory  that  never  shall  fade,  never,  O! 
never  away. 

O ! it  is  sweet  for  our  country  to  die ! How 
softly  reposes 

Warrior  youth  on  his  bier,  wet  by  the 
tears  of  his  love, 

Wet  by  a mother’s  warm  tears;  they  crown 
him  with  garlands  of  roses, 

Weep,  and  then  joyously  thrn,  bright 
where  he  triumphs  above. 

Not  to  the  shades  shall  the  youth  descend 
who  for  country  hath  perished  ; 

Hebe  awaits  him  in  heaven,  welcomes  him 
there  with  her  smile  ; 

There,  at  the  banquet  divine,  the  patriot 
spirit  is  cherished ; 

Gods  love  the  young  who  ascend  pure  from 
the  funeral  pile. 

Not  to  Elysian  fields,  by  the  still,  oblivious 
river ; 

Not  to  the  isles  of  the  blest,  over  the 
blue,  rolling  sea ; 

But  on  Olympian  heights  shall  dwell  the  de- 
voted for  ever ; 

There  shall  assemble  the  good,  there  the 
wise,  valiant,  and  free. 

O ! then,  how  great  for  our  country  to  die, 
in  the  front  rank  to  perish, 

Firm  with  our  breast  to  the  foe,  Victory’s 
shout  in  our  ear ! 

Long  they  our  statues  shall  crown,  in  songs 
our  memory  cherish ; 

We  shall  look  forth  from  our  heaven, 
pleased  the  sweet  music  to  hear. 

James  Gates  I’eroival. 


352 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


LEONIDAS. 

Shout  for  the  mighty  men 

Who  died  along  this  shore, 

Who  died  within  this  mountain’s  glen ! 

For  never  nobler  chieftain’s  head 
Was  laid  on  valor’s  crimson  bed, 

Nor  ever  prouder  gore 
Sprang  forth,  than  theirs  who  won  the  day 
Upon  thy  strand,  Thermopylaa ! 

Shout  for  the  mighty  men 

Who  on  the  Persian  tents, 

Like  lions  from  their  midnight  den 
Bounding  on  the  slumbering  deer, 

Rushed — a storm  of  sword  and  spear ; 

Like  the  roused  elements, 

Let  loose  from  an  immortal  hand 
To  chasten  or  to  crush  a land ! 

But  there  are  none  to  hear — 

Greece  is  a hopeless  slave. 

Leonidas ! no  hand  is  near 
To  lift  thy  fiery  falchion  now ; 

No  warrior  makes  the  warrior’s  vow 
Upon  thy  sea-washed  grave. 

The  voice  that  should  be  raised  by  men 
Must  now  be  given  by  wave  and  glen. 

And  it  is  given ! — the  surge, 

The  tree,  the  rock,  the  sand 
On  Freedom’s  kneeling  spirit  urge, 

In  sounds  that  speak  hut  to  the  free, 

The  memory  of  thine  and  thee ! 

The  vision  of  thy  hand 
Still  gleams  within  the  glorious  dell 
Where  their  gore  hallowed  as  it  fell ! 

And  is  thy  grandeur  done  ? 

Mother  of  men  like  these ! 

Has  not  thy  outcry  gone 

Where  Justice  has  an  ear  to  hear  ? — 

Be  holy ! God  shall  guide  thy  spear, 

Till  in  thy  crimsoned  seas 
Are  plunged  the  chain  and  scimitar. 

Greece  shall  be  a new-horn  star ! 


PERICLES  AND  ASPASIA. 

This  was  the  ruler  of  the  land 
When  Athens  was  the  land  of  fame ; 
This  was  the  light  that  led  the  band 
When  each  was  like  a living  flame ; 
The  centre  of  earth’s  noblest  ring — 

Of  more  than  men  the  more  than  king. 

Yet  not  by  fetter,  nor  by  spear, 

His  sovereignty  was  held  or  won : 
Feared — hut  alone  as  freemen  fear, 

Loved — but  as  freemen  love  alone, 

He  waved  the  sceptre  o’er  his  kind 
By  nature’s  first  great  title — mind ! 

Resistless  words  were  on  his  tongue — 
Then  eloquence  first  flashed  below ; 
Full  armed  to  life  the  portent  sprung — 
Minerva  from  the  thunderer’s  brow ! 
And  his  the  sole,  the  sacred  hand 
That  shook  her  asgis  o’er  the  land. 

And  throned  immortal  by  his  side, 

A woman  sits  with  eye  sublime, — 
Aspasia,  all  his  spirit’s  bride ; 

But,  if  their  solemn  love  were  crime, 
Pity  the  beauty  and  the  sage — 

Their  crime  was  in  their  darkened  age. 

He  perished,  but  his  wreath  was  won — 
He  perished  in  his  height  of  fame ; 
Then  sunk  the  cloud  on  Athens’  sun, 

Yet  still  she  conquered  in  his  name. 
Filled  with  his  soul,  she  could  not  die ; 
Her  conquest  was  Posterity! 

George  Croly. 


BOADICEA. 

When  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Roman  rods, 
Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country’s  gods, 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  Druid,  hoary  chief ; 
Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief. 


George  Croly. 


THE  BULL-FIGHT  OF  GAZUL. 


Princess ! if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

’T  is  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

Rome  shall  perish — write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt ; 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred, 

Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

Rome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a thousand  states ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground — 
Hark ! the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates ! 

Other  Romans  shall  arise, 

Heedless  of  a soldier’s  name ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize. 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a wider  world  command. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 
Thy  posterity  shall  sway ; 

Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

Hone  invincible  as  they. 

Such  the  bard’s  prophetic  words, 
Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 

Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 
Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a monarch’s  pride, 

Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow  : 

Rushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died  ; 
Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians,  pitiless  as  proud, 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due  ; 

Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 

William  Cowpeb. 


358 


THE  BULL-FIGHT  OF  GAZUL. 

i. 

Kino  Almanzor  of  Granada,  he  hath  bid  the 
trumpet  sound, 

He  hath  summoned  all  the  Moorish  lords  from 
the  hills  and  plains  around ; 

From  Vega  and  Sierra,  from  Betis  andXenil, 

They  have  come  with  helm  and  cuirass  of 
gold  and  twisted  steel. 

ii. 

’T  is  the  holy  Baptist’s  feast  they  hold  in  roy- 
alty and  state, 

And  they  have  closed  the  spacious  lists  beside 
the  Alhambra’s  gate ; 

In  gowns  of  black,  and  silver-laced,  within 
the  tented  ring, 

Eight  Moors,  to  fight  the  bull,  are  placed  in 
presence  of  the  king. 

HI. 

Eight  Moorish  lords  of  valor  tried,  with  stal- 
wart arm  and  true, 

The  onset  of  the  beasts  abide,  come  trooping 
furious  through ; 

The  deeds  they’ve  done,  the  spoils  they ’ve 
won,  fill  all  with  hope  and  trust ; 

Yet,  ere  high  in  heaven  appears  the  sun,  they 
all  have  bit  the  dust. 

IV. 

Then  sounds  the  trumpet  clearly ; then  clangs 
the  loud  tambour : 

Make  room,  make  room  for  Gazul — throw 
wide,  throw  wide  the  door ! 

Blow,  blow  the  trumpet  clearer  still,  more 
loudly  strike  the  drum — 

The  Alcayde  of  Algava  to  fight  the  bull  doth 
come ! 

v. 

And  first  before  the  king  he  passed,  with  rev- 
erence stooping  low, 

And  next  he  bowed  him  to  the  queen,  and 
the  infantas  all  a-rowe ; 

Then  to  his  lady’s  grace  he  turned,  and  she  to 
him  did  throw 

A scarf  from  out  her  balcony,  was  whiter 
than  the  snow. 


23 


354 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


YI. 

With  the  life-blood  of  the  slaughtered  lords 
all  slippery  is  the  sand, 

Yet  proudly  in  the  centre  hath  Gazul  ta’en 
his  stand ; 

And  ladies  look  with  heaving  breast,  and 
lords  with  anxious  eye — 

But  the  lance  is  firmly  in  its  rest,  and  his 
look  is  calm  and  high. 

vn. 

Three  hulls  against  the  knight  are  loosed,  and 
two  come  roaring  on ; 

He  rises  high  in  stirrup,  forth  stretching  his 
rejon ; 

Each  furious  beast  upon  the  breast  he  deals 
him  such  a blow, 

He  blindly  totters  and  gives  hack,  across  the 
sand  to  go. 

VIII. 

‘‘  Turn,  Gazul,  turn,”  the  people  cry — “ the 
third  comes  up  behind ; 

Low  to  the  sand  his  head  holds  he,  his  nos- 
trils snuff  the  wind  ; ” 

The  mountaineers  that  lead  the  steers  with- 
out stand  whispering  low, 

“Now  thinks  this  proud  Alcayde  to  stun 
Harpado  so  ? ” 

IX. 

From  Guadiana  comes  he  not,  he  comes  not 
from  Xenil, 

From  Guadalarif  of  the  plain,  or  Barves  of 
the  hill ; 

But  where  from  out  the  forest  hurst  Xarama’s 
waters  clear, 

Beneath  the  oak  trees  was  he  nursed,  this 
proud  and  stately  steer. 

x. 

Park  is  his  hide  on  either  side,  hut  the  blood 
within  doth  boil ; 

And  the  dun  hide  glows,  as  if  on  fire,  as  he 
paws  to  the  turmoil. 

His  eyes  are  jet,  and  they  are  set  in  crystal 
rings  of  snow ; 

But  now  they  stare  with  one  red  glare  of 
brass  upon  the  foe. 


XI. 

Upon  the  forehead  of  the  bull  the  horns  stand 
close  and  near, 

From  out  the  broad  and  wrinkled  skull  like 
daggers  they  appear ; 

His  neck  is  massy,  like  the  trunk  of  some  old 
knotted  tree, 

Whereon  the  monster’s  shagged  mane,  like 
billows  curled,  ye  see. 

XII. 

His  legs  are  short,  his  hams  are  thick,  his 
hoofs  are  black  as  night, 

Like  a strong  flail  he  holds  his  tail  in  fierce- 
ness of  his  might ; 

Like  something  molten  out  of  iron,  or  hewn 
from  forth  the  rock, 

Harpado  of  Xarama  stands,  to  bide  the  Al- 
cayde’s  shock. 

xui. 

Now  stops  the  drum — close,  close  they  come 
— thrice  meet,  and  thrice  give  back ; 

The  white  foam  of  Harpado  lies  on  the  char- 
ger’s breast  of  black— 

The  white  foam  of  the  charger  on  Harpado ’s 
front  of  dun  : 

Once  more  advance  upon  his  lance — once 
more,  thou  fearless  one  ! 

XIV. 

Once  more,  once  more— in  dust  and  gore  to 
ruin  must  thou  reel ; 

In  vain,  in  vain  thou  tearest  the  sand  with 
furious  heel — 

In  vain,  in  vain,  thou  noble  beast,  I see,  I see 
thee  stagger ; 

Now  keen  and  cold  thy  neck  must  hold  the 
stern  Alcayde’s  dagger ! 

xv. 

They  have  slipped  a noose  around  his  feet ; 
six  horses  are  brought  in, 

And  away  they  drag  Harpado  with  a loud 
and  joyful  din. 

Now  stoop  thee,  lady,  from  thy  stand,  and 
the  ring  of  price  bestow 

Upon  Gazul  of  Algava,  that  hath  laid  Har 
pado  low. 

Anonymous  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  John  Gibson  Lockhart. 


CHEYY- CHASE. 


CHEVY-CHASE. 

God  prosper  long  our  noble  king, 

Our  lives  and  safeties  all ; 

A woful  hunting  once  there  did 
In  Chevy-Chase  befall. 

To  drive  the  deer  with  hound  and  horn 
Earl  Percy  took  his  way  ; 

The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborn 
The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Earl  of  Northumberland 
A vow  to  God  did  make, 

His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 
Three  Summer  days  to  take — 

The  chiefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chase 
To  kill  and  bear  away. 

These  tidings  to  Earl  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay ; 

Who  sent  Earl  Percy  present  word 
He  Would  prevent  his  sport. 

The  English  earl,  not  fearing  that, 

Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bowmen  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might, 

Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  need 
To  aim  their  shafts  aright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran 
To  chase  the  fallow  deer ; 

On  Monday  they  began  to  hunt 
When  day-light  did  appear  ; 

And  long  before  high  noon  they  had 
A hundred  fat  bucks  slain ; 

Then  having  dined,  the  drovers  went 
To  rouse  the  deer  again. 

The  bowmen  mustered  on  the  hills, 

Well  able  to  endure; 

And  all  their  rear,  with  special  care, 
That  day  was  guarded  sure. 


355 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the 
woods, 

The  nimble  deer  to  take, 

That  with  their  cries  the  hills  and  dales 
An  echo  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went, 

To  view  the  slaughtered  deer ; 

Quoth  he,  “ Earl  Douglas  promised 
This  day  to  meet  me  here ; 

But  if  I thought  he  would  not  come, 

No  longer  would  I stay ; ” 

With  that  a brave  young  gentleman 
Thus  to  the  Earl  did  say : 

“ Lo,  yonder  doth  Earl  Douglas  come 
His  men  in  armor  bright ; 

Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears 
All  marching  in  our  sight ; 

All  men  of  pleasant  Teviotdale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweed ; ” 

“Then  cease  your  sports,”  Earl  Percy 
said, 

“ And  take  your  bows  with  speed; 

And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen, 
Your  courage  forth  advance ; 

For  never  was  there  champion  yet, 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

That  ever  did  on  horseback  come, 

But  if  my  hap  it  were, 

I durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  break  a spear.” 

Earl  Douglas  on  his  milk-white  steed, 
Most  like  a baron  bold, 

Rode  foremost  of  his  company, 

Whose  armor  shone  like  gold. 

“Show  me,”  said  he,  “whose  men  you 
be, 

That  hunt  so  boldy  here, 

That,  without  my  consent,  do  chase 
And  kill  my  fallow-deer.” 


356  POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


The  first  man  that  did  answer  make, 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

Was  noble  Percy  he — 

Who  said,  “We  list  not  to  declare, 
Nor  show  whose  men  we  be : 

As  leader  ware  and  tried ; 

And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 
Bore  down  on  every  side. 

Yet  will  we  spend  onr  dearest  blood 
Thy  chiefest  harts  to  slay.” 

Then  Douglas  swore  a solemn  oath. 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say : 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a wound ; 
But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground. 

“ Ere  thus  I will  out-braved  be, 

One  of  us  two  shall  die ; 

I know  thee  well,  an  Earl  thou  art — 
Lord  Percy,  so  am  I. 

And  throwing  straight  their  bows  away, 
They  grasped  their  swords  so  bright ; 
And  now  sharp  blows,  a heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light. 

But  trust  me,  Percy,  pity  it  were, 
And  great  offence,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltless  men, 
For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

They  closed  full  fast  on  every  side — 
No  slackness  there  was  found ; 
And  many  a gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

Let  you  and  me  the  battle  try, 

And  set  our  men  aside.” 

“ Accursed  be  he,”  Earl  Percy  said, 
“ By  whom  this  is  denied.” 

In  truth,  it  was  a grief  to  see 
How  each  one  chose  his  spear, 

And  how  the  blood  out  of  their  breasts 
Did  gush  like  water  clear. 

Then  stepped  a gallant  squire  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name, 

Who  said,  “ I would  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry,  our  king,  for  shame, 

At  last  these  two  stout  Earls  did  meet ; 

Like  captains  of  great  might, 

Like  lions  wode,  they  laid  on  lode, 

And  made  a cruel  fight. 

That  e'er  my  captain  fought  on  foot, 
And  I stood  looking  on. 

You  two  be  Earls,”  said  Witherington, 
“ And  I a squire  alone ; 

They  fought  until  they  both  did  sweat, 
With  swords  of  tempered  steel, 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 
They  trickling  down  did  feel. 

I ’ll  do  the  best  that  do  I may, 

While  I have  power  to  stand ; 

While  I have  power  to  wield  my  sword, 
I ’ll  fight  with  heart  and  hand.” 

“ Yield  thee,  Lord  Percy,”  Douglas  said ; 

“ In  faith  I will  thee  bring 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  be 
By  James,  our  Scottish  king. 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bows — 
Their  hearts  were  good  and  true ; 

At  the  first  flight  of  arrows  sent, 

Full  fourscore  Scots  they  slew. 

Thy  ransom  I will  freely  give, 

And  this  report  of  thee, 

Thou  art  the  most  courageous  knight 
That  ever  I did  see.” 

Yet  stays  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent, 
As  chieftain  stout  and  good ; 

As  valiant  captain,  all  unmoved, 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 

“No,  Douglas,”  saith  Earl  Percy  then, 
“ Thy  proffer  I do  scorn ; 

I will  not  yield  to  any  Scot 
That  ever  yet  was  born.” 

CHEVY-CHASE. 


With  that  there  came  an  arrow  keen 
Out  of  an  English  how, 

Which  struck  Earl  Douglas  to  the  heart ; 
A deep  and  deadly  blow ; 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than 
these : 

“ Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end ; 

Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall.” 

Then  leaving  life,  Earl  Percy  took 
The  dead  man  by  the  hand ; 

And  said,  “Earl  Douglas,  for  thy  life 
Would  I had  lost  my  land. 

In  truth,  my  very  heart  doth  bleed 
With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ; 

For  sure  a more  redoubted  knight 
Mischance  did  never  take.” 

A knight  amongst  the  Scots  there  was 
Who  saw  Earl  Douglas  die, 

Who  straight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Earl  Percy. 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery  was  he  called, 
Who,  with  a spear  full  bright, 

AVell  mounted  on  a gallant  steed, 

Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all, 
Without  a dread  or  fear; 

And  through  Earl  Percy’s  body  then 
He  thrust  his  hateful  spear ; 

With  such  vehement  force  and  might 
He  did  his  body  gore, 

The  staff  ran  through  the  other  side 
A large  cloth  yard  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  die, 

Whose  courage  none  could  stain. 

An  English  archer  then  perceived 
The  noble  Earl  was  slain. 

He  had  a bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a trusty  tree ; 

An  arrow  of  a cloth  yard  long 
To  the  hard  head  haled  he. 


35 1 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery 
So  right  the  shaft  he  set, 

The  gray  goose  wing  that  was  thereon 
In  his  heart’s  blood  was  wet. 

This  fight  did  last  from  break  of  day 
Till  setting  of  the  sun : 

For  when  they  rung  the  evening-bell, 
The  battle  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Earl  Percy  there  were  slain 
Sir  John  of  Egerton, 

Sir  Robert  Ratcliff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  baron. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sii 
James, 

Both  knights  of  good  account, 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Raby  there  was  slain, 
Whose  prowess  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  my  heart  is  wo 
That  ever  he  slain  should  be, 

For  when  his  legs  were  hewn  in  two, 

He  knelt  and  fought  on  his  knee. 

And  with  Earl  Douglas  there  was  slain 
Sir  Hugh  Mountgomery, 

Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  field 
One  foot  would  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too — 

His  sister’s  son  was  he ; 

Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed, 

But  saved  he  could  not  be. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 
Did  with  Earl  Douglas  die : 

Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  spears, 
Scarce  fifty-five  did  fly. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three; 

The  rest  in  Chevy-Chase  were  slain, 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widows  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewail ; 

They  washed  their  wounds  in  brinish 
tears, 

But  all  would  not  prevail. 


858 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


Their  bodies,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 
They  bore  with  them  away ; 

They  kissed  them  dead  a thousand 
times, 

Ere  they  were  clad  in  clay. 

The  news  was  brought  to  Edinburgh, 
Where  Scotland’s  king  did  reign, 

That  brave  Earl  Douglas  suddenly 
Was  with  an  arrow  slain : 

“0  heavy  news,”  King  James  did  say; 

“Scotland  can  witness  be 
I have  not  any  captain  more 
Of  such  account  as  he.” 

Like  tidings  to  King  Henry  came 
Within  as  short  a space, 

That  Percy  of  Northumberland 
Was  slain  in  Chevy-Chase : 

“ Now  God  be  with  him,”  said  our  king, 
“ Since ’t  will  no  better  be ; 

I trust  I have  within  my  realm 
Five  hundred  as  good  as  he: 

Yet  shall  hot  Scots  or  Scotland  say 
But  I will  vengeance  take : 

I ’ll  be  revenged  on  them  all, 

For  brave  Earl  Percy’s  sake.” 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 
After  at  Humbledown ; 

In  one.  day  fifty  knights  were  slain 
With  lords  of  high  renown ; 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  hundreds  die  : 

Thus  endeth  the  hunting  of  Chevy- 
Chase, 

Made  by  the  Earl  Percy. 

God  save  the  king,  and  bless  this  land, 
With  plenty,  joy,  and  peace ; 

And  grant,  henceforth,  that  foul  debate 
’Twixt  noblemen  may  cease ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  AGINCOURT. 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 

Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 
Longer  will  tarry ; 

But  putting  to  the  main, 

At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  towards  Agincourt 
In  happy  hour — 

Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  gen’ral  lay 
With  all  his  power, 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 

King  Henry  to  deride, 

His  ransom  to  provide 
To  the  king  sending ; 

Which  he  neglects  the  while, 

As  from  a nation  vile, 

Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 

Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then 
Though  they  to  one  be  ten, 

Be  not  amazed; 

Yet  have  we  well  begun — 

Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 
By  fame  been  raised. 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he,’ 

This  my  full  rest  shall  be ; 

England  ne’er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 

Victor  I will  remain, 

Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain ; 

Never  shall  she  sustain 
Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 
Under  our  swords  they  fell ; 

No  less  our  skill  is 


THE  CAVALIER’S  SONG. 


359 


Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 

By  many  a warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led ; 

With  the  main  Henry  sped, 
Amongst  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear — 

A braver  man  not  there : 

0 Lord ! how  hot  they  were 
On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone ; 
Armour  on  armour  shone  ; 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan — 

To  hear  was  wonder ; 

That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake ; 

Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 

O noble  Erpingham ! 

Which  did  the  signal  aim 
To  our  hid  forces ; 

When,  from  a meadow  by, 

Like  a storm  suddenly, 

The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a cloth-yard  long, 

That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  weather ; 

None  from  his  fellow  starts, 

But  playing  manly  parts, 

And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw, 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 

And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy : 

Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 

Down  the  French  peasants  went ; 
Our  men  were  hardy. 


This  while  our  noble  king, 

His  broadsword  brandishing, 

Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o’erwhelm  it ; 

And  many  a deep  wound  lent, 

His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 

And  many  a cruel  dent 
Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo’ster,  that  duke  so  good, 

Next  of  the  royal  blood, 

For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother — 
Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 

Though  but  a maiden  knight, 

Yet  in  that  furious  fight 
Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade ; 

Oxford  the  foe  invade, 

And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 

Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply ; 

Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  Saint  Crispin’s  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 

Which  fame  did  not  delay 
To  England  to  carry ; 

O,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a pen, 

Or  England  breed  again 
Such  a King  Harry  ? 

Michael  Drayton 


THE  CAVALIER’S  SONG. 

A steed  ! a steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A sword  of  metal  keene ! 

All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 

The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 
The  rowlinge  of  the  drum, 

The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 

And  0 ! the  thundering  presse  of  knightes, 
Whenas  their  war  cryes  swell, 

May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 
And  rouse  a fiend  from  hell. 


360 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


Then  mounte!  then  mounte,  brave  gallants 
all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine : 

Deathe’s  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 
Us  to  the  field  againe. 

No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 
When  the  sword-hilt ’s  in  our  hand — 
Heart  whole  we  ’ll  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 
For  the  fayrest  of  the  land; 

Let  piping  swaine,  and  craven  wight, 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye ; 

Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die ! 

William  Motherwell. 


BANNOCK-BURN. 

EOBEBT  BBUCE’S  ADDBESS  TO  HIS  AEMY. 

Scots,  wdia  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled — 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led — 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 

Or  to  victorie ! 

Now ’s  the  day,  and  now ’s  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o’  battle  lower ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward’s  power — 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a traitor  knave  ? 

Wha  can  fill  a coward’s  grave  ? 

Wha  sae  base  as  be  a slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee  ! 

Wha  for  Scotland’s  king  and  law 
Freedom’s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Free-man  stand,  or  free-man  fa’ — 

Let  him  follow  me ! 

By  oppression’s  woes  and  pains ! 

By  your  sons  in  servile  chains ! 

We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 

Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 

Liberty ’s  in  every  blow ! 

Let  us  do,  or  die ! 

Eobebt  Burns. 


IVEY. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom 
all  glories  are ! 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  liege,  King  Henry 
of  Navarre! 

Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music 
and  of  dance, 

Through  thy  corn-fields  green,  and  sunny 
vines,  O pleasant  land  of  France ! 

Amd  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud 
city  of  the  waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy 
mourning  daughters ; 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous 
in  our  joy; 

For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who 
wrought  thy  walls  annoy. 

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! a single  field  hath  turned 
the  chance  of  war ! 

Hurrah!  Hurrah!  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of 
Navarre. 

O!  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at 
the  dawn  of  day, 

We  saw  the  army  of  the  League  drawn  out  in 
long  array ; 

With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel 
peers, 

And  Appenzel’s  stout  infantry,  and  Egmont’s 
Flemish  spears. 

There  rode  the  brood  of  false  Lorraine,  the 
curses  of  our  land ; 

And  dark  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a trun- 
cheon in  his  hand ; 

And,  as  we  looked  on  them,  we  thought  of 
Seine’s  empurpled  flood, 

And  good  Coligni’s  hoary  hair  all  dabbled 
with  his  blood ; 

And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules 
the  fate  of  war, 

To  fight  for  His  own  holy  name,  and  Henry 
of  Navarre. 

The  King  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  his 
armor  drest ; 

And  he  has  bound  a snow-white  plume  upon 
his  gallant  crest. 


IVRY. 


361 


He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a tear  was  in 
his  eye ; 

He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance 
was  stern  and  high. 

Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled 
from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  all  our  line,  a deafening  shout : God 
save  our  lord  the  King ! 

“And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,  as  fall  full 
well  he  may — 

For  never  I saw  promise  yet  of  such  a bloody 
fray— 

Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine 
amidst  the  ranks  of  war, 

And  be  your  oriflamme  to-day  the  helmet  of 
Navarre.” 

Hurrah ! the  foes  are  moving.  Hark  to  the 
mingled  din, 

Of  fife,  and  steed,  and  trump,  and  drum,  and 
roaring  culverin. 

The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  Saint 
Andre’s  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and 
Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentle- 
men of  France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies — upon  them  with 
the  lance ! 

A thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a thou- 
sand spears  in  rest, 

A thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind 
the  snow-white  crest ; 

And  in  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  while, 
like  a guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  hel- 
met of  Navarre. 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours : Ma- 
yenne  hath  turned  his  rein ; 

D’Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter ; the  Flem- 
ish count  is  slain ; 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  be- 
fore a Biscay  gale ; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and 
flags,  and  cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and,  all 
along  our  van, 

Kemember  Saint  Bartholomew!  was  passed 
from  man  to  man. 


But  out  spake  gentle  Henry — “ No  French 
man  is  my  foe : 

Down,  down,  with  every  foreigner,  but  let 
your  brethren  go  ” — 

O ! was  there  ever  such  a knight,  in  friend- 
ship or  in  war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  sol- 
dier of  Navarre  ? 

Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who 
fought  for  France  to-day ; 

And  many  a lordly  banner  God  gave  them 
for  a prey. 

But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in 
fight; 

And  the  good  Lord  of  Rosny  hath  ta’en  the 
cornet  white — 

Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white 
hath  ta’en, 

The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag 
of  false  Lorraine. 

Up  with  it  high ; unfurl  it  wide — that  all  the 
host  may  know 

How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house 
which  wrought  his  church  such  woe. 

Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound 
their  loudest  point  of  war, 

Fling  the  red  shreds,  a footcloth  meet  for 
Henry  of  Navarre. 

Ho!  maidens  of  Vienna;  Ho!  matrons  of 
Lucerne — 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who 
never  shall  return. 

Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican 
pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a mass  for  thy 
poor  spearmen’s  souls. 

Ho ! gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that 
your  arms  be  bright ; 

Ho!  burghers  of  St.  Genevieve,  keep  watch 
and  ward  to-night ; 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our 
God  hath  raised  the  slave, 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the 
valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all 
glories  are ; 

And  glory  to  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry 
of  Navarre ! 

Thomas  Babinqton  Macaulay. 


362  POEMS  OF 


NASEBY. 

O ! wherefore  come  ye  forth  in  triumph 
from  the  North, 

With  your  hands  and  your  feet,  and  your  rai- 
ment all  red? 

And  wherefore  do  your  rout  send  forth  a 
joyous  shout? 

And  whence  are  the  grapes  of  the  wine-press 
that  ye  tread  ? 

0!  evil  was  the  root,  and  hitter  was  the 
fruit, 

And  crimson  was  the  juice  of  the  vintage  that 
we  trod ; 

For  we  trampled  on  the  throng  of  the  haughty 
and  the  strong, 

Who  sate  in  the  high  places  and  slew  the 
saints  of  God. 

It  was  about  the  noon  of  a glorious  day  of 
June, 

That  we  saw  their  banners  dance  and  their 
cuirasses  shine, 

And  the  Man  of  Blood  was  there,  with  his 
long  essenced  hair, 

And  Astley,  and  Sir  Marmaduke,  and  Rupert 
of  the  Rhine. 

Like  a servant  of  the  Lord,  with  his  Bible  and 
his  sword, 

The  General  rode  along  us  to  form  us  for  the 
fight; 

When  a murmuring  sound  broke  out,  and 
swelled  into  a shout 

Among  the  godless  horsemen  upon  the  ty- 
rant’s right. 

And  hark ! like  the  roar  of  the  billow  on  the 
shore, 

The  cry  of  battle  rises  along  their  charging 
line: 

For  God ! for  the  Cause ! for  the  Church ! for 
the  Laws ! 

For  Charles,  King  of  England,  and  Rupert  of 
the  Rhine ! 

The  furious  German  comes,  with  his  trumpets 
and  his  drums, 

His  bravoes  of  Alsatia  and  pages  of  White- 
hall; 


AMBITION. 

They  are  bursting  on  our  flanks ! Grasp  your 
pikes ! Close  your  ranks ! 

For  Rupert  never  comes,  but  to  conquer,  or 
to  fall. 

They  are  here — they  rush  on — we  are  bro- 
ken— we  are  gone — 

Our  left  is  borne  before  them  like  stubble  on 
the  blast. 

0 Lord,  put  forth  thy  might ! O Lord,  defend 
the  right ! 

Stand  back  to  back,  in  God’s  name ! and  fight 
it  to  the  last ! 

Stout  Skippen  hath  a wound — the  centre  hath 
given  ground. 

But  hark!  what  means  this  trampling  of 
horsemen  in  the  rear  ? 

What  banner  do  I see,  boys  ? ’T  is  he ! thank 
God!  ’tis  he,  boys ! 

Bear  up  another  minute!  Brave  Oliver  is 
here ! 

Their  heads  are  stooping  low,  their  pikes  all 
in  a row : 

Like  a whirlwind  on  the  trees,  like  a deluge 
on  the  dykes, 

Our  cuirassiers  have  burst  on  the  ranks  of 
the  Accurst, 

And  at  a shock  have  scattered  the  forest  of 
his  pikes. 

Fast,  fast,  the  gallants  ride,  in  some  safe  nook 
to  hide 

Their  coward  heads,  predestined  to  rot  on 
Temple  Bar. 

And  he — he  turns ! he  flies ! shame  to  those 
cruel  eyes 

That  bore  to  look  on  torture,  and  dare  not 
look  on  war. 

Ho,  comrades!  scour  the  plain,  and  ere  ye 
strip  the  slain, 

First  give  another  stab  to  make  the  quest  se- 
cure ; 

Then  shake  from  sleeves  and  pockets  their 
broad  pieces  and  lockets, 

The  tokens  of  the  wanton,  the  plunder  of  the 
poor. 


AN  HOR ATI  AN  ODE. 


Fools!  your  doublets  shone  with  gold,  and 
your  hearts  were  gay  and  bold, 

When  you  kissed  your  lily  hands  to  your  le- 
mans  to-day ; 

And  to-morrow  shall  the  fox  from  her  cham- 
bers in  the  rocks 

Lead  forth  her  tawny  cubs  to  howl  above  the 
prey. 

Where  be  your  tongues,  that  late  mocked  at 
heaven,  and  hell  and  fate  ? 

And  the  fingers  that  once  were  so  busy  with 
your  blades  ? 

Your  perfumed  satin  clothes,  your  catches 
and  your  oaths  ? 

Your  stage-plays  and  your  sonnets  ? your  dia- 
monds and  your  spades  ? 

Down ! down ! for  ever  down,  with  the  mitre 
and  the  crown ! 

With  the  Belial  of  the  Court,  and  the  Mam- 
mon of  the  Pope ! 

There  is  woe  in  Oxford  halls,  there  is  wail  in 
Durham  stalls; 

The  Jesuit  smites  his  bosom,  the  Bishop  rends 
his  cope. 

And  she  of  the  Seven  Hills  shall  mourn  her 
children’s  ills, 

And  tremble  when  she  thinks  on  the  edge  of 
England’s  sword ; 

And  the  Kings  of  earth  in  fear  shall  tremble 
when  they  hear 

What  the  hand  of  God  hath  wrought  for  the 
Houses  and  the  Word! 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


GIVE  A ROUSE. 

Kino  Charles,  and  who  ’ll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who ’s  ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give  a rouse : here ’s  in  Hell’s  despite  now, 
King  Charles ! 

ii. 

Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went  since? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank  once? 
Who  helped  me  to  gold  I spent  since? 

Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank  once  ? 


King  Charles,  and  who  HI  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  forjight  now  ? 
Give  a rouse : here 's  in  Kell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 

hi. 

To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quaff  else, 

By  the  old  fool’s  side  that  begot  him  ? 

For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 

While  Noll’s  damned  troopers  shot  him ? 
King  Charles,  and  who  'll  do  him  right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who 's  ripe  forjight  now  ? 
Give  a rouse : here 's  in  Kell's  despite  now , 
King  Charles  ! 

Kobekt  Bbowning. 


AN  HORATIAN  ODE, 

UPON  CP.OM WELL’S  EETUEN  FEOM  IEELAND. 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear, 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear ; 

Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 
His  numbers  languishing. 

’Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 

And  oil  the  unused  armor’s  rust ; 
Removing  from  the  wall 
The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 
Urged  his  active  star ; 

And  like  the  three-forked  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nurst, 
Did  thorough  his  own  side 
His  fiery  way  divide. 

For  ’tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 

The  emulous,  or  enemy ; 

And,  with  such,  to  enclose 
Is  more  than  to  oppose. 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went, 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent ; 

And  Caesar’s  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 


364  POEMS  OF 

AMBITION. 

’Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  heaven’s  flame ; 
And,  if  we  would  speak  true, 
Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

This  was  that  memorable  hour, 

Which  first  assured  the  forced  power ; 
So,  when  they  did  design 
The  Capitol’s  first  line, 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere, 

(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot,) 

A bleeding  head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run ; 
And  yet  in  that  the  state 
Foresaw  its  happy  fate. 

Could  by  industrious  valor  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time, 
And  cast  the  kingdoms  old 
Into  another  mould ! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 
To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed ; 
So  much  one  man  can  do, 

That  does  both  act  and  know. 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  rights  in  vain— 
But  those  do  hold  or  break, 

As  men  are  strong  or  weak. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 

And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 
How  good  he  is,  how  just, 

And  fit  for  highest  trust : 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 
Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

Nor  yet  grown  stiffer  by  command, 
But  still  in  the  Bepublic’s  hand, 
How  fit  he  is  to  sway 
That  can  so  well  obey. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war, 

Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar  ? 
And  Hampton  shows  what  part 
He  had  of  wiser  art : 

He  to  the  Commons’  feet  presents 
A kingdom  for  his  first  year’s  rents , 
And,  what  he  may,  forbears 
His  fame  to  make  it  theirs : 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a net  of  such  a scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Carisbrook’s  narrow  case ; 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirt, 
To  lay  them  at  the  Public’s  skirt. 

So  when  the  falcon  high 
Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 

That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne, 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn. 
While  round  the  armed  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands, 

She,  having  killed,  no  more  does  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch ; 
Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 

The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene ; 

But  with  his  keener  eye 
The  axe’s  edge  did  try : 

What  may  not  then  our  isle  presume, 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume  ? 
What  may  not  others  fear 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year  ? 

Nor  called  the  gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bowed  his  comely  head 
Down,  as  upon  a bed. 

As  Ca3sar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul ; 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal ; 

And  to  all  states  not  free 
Shall  climacteric  be. 

SONNETS. 


365 


The  Piet  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-colored  mind ; 

But  from  this  valor  sad 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid, 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 
The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  thou,  the  war’s  and  fortune’s  son, 
March  indefatigably  on; 

And,  for  the  last  effect, 

Still  keep  the  sword  erect ! 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 

The  same  arts  that  did  gain 
A power,  must  it  maintain. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


SONNETS. 

TO  THE  LOBD  GENERAL  CROMWELL. 

Cromwell,  our  chief  of  men,  who  through  a 
cloud 

Not  of  war  only,  but  detractions  rude, 

Guided  by  faith  and  matchless  fortitude, 

To  peace  and  truth  thy  glorious  way  hast 
ploughed, 

And  on  the  neck  of  crowned  fortune  proud 

Hast  reared  God’s  trophies,  and  his  work 
pursued, 

While  Darwen  stream  with  blood  of  Scots 
imbrued, 

And  Dunbar  field  resounds  thy  praises  loud, 
And  Worcester’s  laureat  wreath.  Yet  much 
remains 

To  conquer  still ; peace  hath  her  victories 

No  less  renowned  than  war.  New  foes  arise 
Threatening  to  bind  our  souls  with  secular 
chains : 

Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the 
paw 

Of  hireling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their 
maw. 


ON  THE  DETRACTION  WHICH  FOLLOWED  UPON 
MY  WRITING  CERTAIN  TREATISES. 

I did  but  prompt  the  age  to  quit  their  clogs 

By  the  known  rules  of  ancient  liberty, 

When  straight  a barbarous  noise  environs 
me 

Of  owls  and  cuckoos,  asses,  apes,  and 
dogs: 

As  when  those  hinds  that  were  transformed 
to  frogs 

Bailed  at  Latona’s  twin-born  progeny, 

Which  after  held  the  sun  and  moon  in 
fee. 

But  this  is  got  by  casting  pearl  to  hogs, 

That  bawl  for  freedom  in  their  senseless 
mood, 

And  still  revolt  when  truth  would  set  them 
free. 

License  they  mean  when  they  cry  Liberty; 

For  who  loves  that  must  first  be  wise  and 
good; 

But  from  that  mark  how  far  they  rove  we 
see, 

For  all  this  waste  of  wealth,  and  loss  of 
blood. 


TO  CYRIAO  SKINNER. 

Cyriao,  this  three  years  day  these  eyes,  tho' 
clear 

To  outward  view  of  blemish  or  of  spot, 

Bereft  of  light,  their  seeing  have  forgot, 

Nor  to  their  idle  orbs  doth  sight  appear 
Of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star,  throughout  the 
year, 

Or  man,  or  woman.  Yet  I argue  not 

Against  Heaven’s  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a 
jot 

Of  heart  or  hope ; but  still  bear  up  and 
steer 

Eight  onward.  What  supports  me,  dost  thou 
ask? 

The  conscience,  friend,  t’  have  lost  them 
overplied 

In  liberty’s  defence,  my  noble  task, 

Of  which  all  Europe  rings  from  side  to  side. 

This  thought  might  lead  me  through  the 
world’s  vain  mask, 

Content  though  blind,  had  I no  better  guide. 

John  Milton 


366  POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


WHEN  BANNERS  ARE  WAVING. 

i. 

When  banners  are  waving, 

And  lances  a-  pushing ; 

When  captains  are  shouting, 

And  war-horses  rushing ; 

When  cannon  are  roaring, 

And  hot  bullets  flying, 

He  that  would  honor  win, 

Must  not  fear  dying. 

The  shouting  has  ceased, 

And  the  flashing  of  cannon ! 

I looked  from  the  turret 
For  crescent  and  pennon : 

As  flax  touched  by  fire, 

As  hail  in  the  river, 

They  were  smote,  they  were  fallen, 
And  had  meited  for  ever. 

Anonymous. 

li. 

THE  COVENANTERS’  BATTLE-CHANT. 

Though  shafts  fly  so  thick 
That  it  seems  to  be  snowing ; 
Though  streamlets  with  blood 
More  than  water  are  flowing ; 
Though  with  sabre  and  bullet 
Our  bravest  are  dying, 

AYe  speak  of  revenge,  but 
We  ne’er  speak  of  flying. 

hi. 

To  battle ! to  battle ! 

To  slaughter  and  strife ! 
For  a sad,  broken  Covenant 
We  barter  poor  life. 

The  great  God  of  Judah 
Shall  smite  with  our  hand, 
And  break  down  the  idols 
That  cumber  the  land. 

Come,  stand  to  it,  heroes ! 

The  heathen  are  coming ; 
Horsemen  are  round  the  walls, 
Riding  and  running ; 
Maidens  and  matrons  all 
Arm ! arm ! are  crying , 
From  petards  the  wildfire ’s 
Flashing  and  flying. 

Uplift  every  voice 

In  prayer,  and  in  song ; 
Remember  the  battle 
Is  not  to  the  strong ; — 

Lo,  the  Ammonites  thicken ! 

And  onward  they  come, 

To  the  vain  noise  of  trumpet, 
Of  cymbal,  and  drum. 

The  trumpets  from  turrets  high 
Loudly  are  braying ; 

The  steeds  for  the  onset 
Are  snorting  and  neighing ; 

As  waves  in  the  ocean, 

The  dark  plumes  are  dancing ; 
As  stars  in  the  blue  sky, 

The  helmets  are  glancing. 

They  haste  to  the  onslaught, 
With  hagbut  and  spear ; 

They  lust  for  a banquet 
That ’s  deathful  and  dear. 

Now  horseman  and  footman 
Sweep  down  the  hill-side ; 
They  come,  like  fierce  Pharaohs, 
To  die  in  their  pride ! 

Their  ladders  are  planting, 

Their  sabres  are  sweeping; 
Now  swords  from  our  sheaths 
By  the  thousand  are  leaping ; 
Like  the  flash  of  the  levin 
Ere  men  hearken  thunder, 
Swords  gleam,  and  the  steel  caps 
Are  cloven  asunder. 

See,  long  plume  and  pennon 
Stream  gay  in  the  air ! 

They  are  given  us  for  slaughter, — 
Shall  God’s  people  spare  ? 

Nay,  nay;  lop  them  off — 

Friend,  father,  and  son ; 

All  earth  is  athirst  till 
The  good  work  be  done. 

THE  CAMERONIAN’S  DREAM. 


367 


Brace  tight  every  buckler, 

And  lift  high  the  sword ! 

For  biting  must  blades  be 
That  fight  for  the  Lord. 
Remember,  remember, 

How  saints’  blood  was  shed, 

As  free  as  the  rain,  and 
Homes  desolate  made ! 

Among  them ! — among  them ! 

Unburied  bones  cry : 

Avenge  us, — or,  like  us, 

Faith’s  true  martyrs  die ! 

Hew,  hew  down  the  spoilers ! 

Slay  on,  and  spare  none ; 

Then  shout  forth  in  gladness, 
Heaven’s  battle  is  won ! 

Wiillam  Motherwell. 


THE  CAMERONIAN’S  DREAM. 

In  a dream  of  the  night  I was  wafted  away 

To  the  muirland  of  mist,  where  the  martyrs 
lay; 

Where  Cameron’s  sword  and  his  Bible  are 
seen, 

Engraved  on  the  stone  where  the  heather 
grows  green. 

’ Twas  a dream  of  those  ages  of  darkness  and 
blood 

When  the  minister’s  home  was  the  mountain 
and  wood ; 

When  in  Wellwood’s  dark  valley  the  stand- 
ard of  Zion, 

All  bloody  and  torn,  ’mong  the  heather  was 

lying. 

Twas  morning;  and  Summer’s  young  sun 
from  the  east 

Lay  in  loving  repose  on  the  green  mountain’s 
breast ; 

On  Wardlaw  and  Cairntablo  the  clear  shin- 
ing dew 

Glistened  there  ’mong  the  heath  bells  and 
mountain  flowers  blue. 


And  far  up  in  heaven,  near  the  white  sunny 
cloud, 

The  song  of  the  lark  was  melodious  and 
loud ; 

And  in  Glenmuir’s  wild  solitude,  lengthened 
and  deep, 

Were  the  whistling  of  plovers  and  bleating 
of  sheep. 

And  Wellwood’s  sweet  valley  breathed  music 
and  gladness — 

The  fresh  meadow  blooms  hung  in  beauty 
and  redness ; 

Its  daughters  were  happy  to  hail  the  return- 

ing, 

And  drink  the  delight  of  July’s  sweet  morn- 
ing. 

But,  O ! there  were  hearts  cherished  far  other 
feelings, 

Illumed  by  the  light  of  prophetic  reveal- 
ings; 

Who  drank  from  the  scenery  of  beauty  but 
sorrow, 

For  they  knew  that  their  blood  would  bedew 
it  to-morrow. 

’ Twas  the  few  faithful  ones  who  with  Cam- 
eron were  lying 

Concealed  ’mong  the  mist  where  the  heath- 
fowl  was  crying ; 

For  the  horsemen  of  Earlshall  around  them 
were  hovering, 

And  their  bridle  reins  rung  through  the  thin 
misty  covering. 

Their  faces  grew  pale,  and  their  swords  were 
unsheathed, 

But  the  vengeance  that  darkened  their  brow 
was  unbreathed ; 

With  eyes  turned  to  heaven  in  calm  resigna- 
tion, 

They  sang  their  last  song  to  the  God  of  Sal- 
vation. 

The  hills  with  the  deep  mournful  music  were 
ringing, 

The  curlew  and  plover  in  concert  were  sing- 
ing; 

. l 


368 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


But  the  melody  died  ’mid  derision  and  laugh- 
ter, 

As  the  host  of  ungodly  rushed  on  to  the 
slaughter. 

Though  in  mist,  and  in  darkness  and  fire, 
they  were  shrouded, 

Yet  the  souls  of  the  righteous  were  calm  and 
unclouded ; 

TJieir  dark  eyes  flashed  lightning,  as  firm 
and  unbending, 

They  stood  like  the  rock  which  the  thunder 
is  rending. 

The  muskets  were  flashing,  the  blue  swords 
were  gleaming, 

The  helmets  were  cleft,  and  the  red  blood 
was  streaming, 

The  heavens  grew  dark,  and  the  thunder  was 
rolling, 

When  in  Wellwood’s  dark  muirlands  the 
mighty  were  falling. 

When  the  righteous  had  fallen,  and  the  com- 
bat was  ended, 

A chariot  of  fire  through  the  dark  cloud  de- 
scended ; 

Its  drivers  were  angels  on  horses  of  white- 
ness, 

And  its  burning  wheels  turned  upon  axles  of 
brightness. 

A seraph  unfolded  its  doors  bright  and  shin- 
ing, 

All  dazzling  like  gold  of  the  seventh  refin- 
ing, 

And  the  souls  that  came  forth  out  of  great 
tribulation, 

Have  mounted  the  chariots  and  steeds  of 
salvation. 

On  the  arch  of  the  rainbow  the  chariot  is 
gliding, 

Through  the  path  of  the  thunder  the  horse- 
men are  riding — 

Glide  swiftly,  bright  spirits ! the  prize  is  be- 
fore ye — 

A crown  never  fading,  a kingdom  of  glory  ! 

James  Htslop. 


THE  GALLANT  GRAHAMS. 

To  wear  the  blue  I think  it  best, 

Of  a’  the  colors  that  I see ; 

And  I ’ll  wear  it  for  the  gallant  Grahams 
That  are  banished  frae  their  ain  countrie. 

I ’ll  crown  them  east,  I ’ll  crown  them  west, 
The  bravest  lads  that  e’er  I saw ; 

They  bore  the  gree  in  free  fighting, 

And  ne’er  were  slack  their  swords  to  draw. 

They  wan  the  day  wi’  Wallace  wight ; 

They  were  the  lords  o’  the  south  countrie ; 
Cheer  up  your  hearts,  brave  cavaliers, 

Till  the  gallant  Grahams  come  o’er  the 
sea. 

At  the  Gouk  head,  where  their  camp  was 
set, 

They  rade  the  white  horse  and  the  gray, 

A’  glancing  in  their  plated  armor, 

As  the  gowd  shines  in  a Summer’s  day. 

But  woe  to  Hacket,  and  Strachan  baith, 

And  ever  an  ill  death  may  they  die, 

For  they  betrayed  the  gallant  Grahams, 

That  aye  were  true  to  Majesty. 

Now  fare  ye  weel,  sweet  Ennerdale, 

Baith  kith  and  kin  that  I could  name ; 

O,  I would  sell  my  silken  snood 
To  see  the  gallant  Grahams  come  hame. 

AliONTMOUS. 


LOCHABER  NO  MORE. 

Faeewell  to  Lochaber!  and  farewell,  my 
Jean, 

Where  heartsome  with  thee  I hae  mony  day 
been! 

For  Lochaber  no  more,  Lochaber  no  more, 
We  ’ll  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  no  more  ! 
These  tears  that  I shed  they  are  a’  for  my  dear, 
And  no  for  the  dangers  attending  on  war, 
Though  borne  on  rough  seas  to  a far  bloody 
shore, 

Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 


CHARLIE  IS  MY  DARLING.  369 


Though  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every  wind, 

They  ’ll  ne’er  make  a tempest  like  that  in  my 
mind; 

Though  loudest  of  thunder  on  louder  waves 
roar, 

That ’s  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the 
shore. 

To  leave  thee  hehind  me  my  heart  is  sair 
pained ; 

By  ease  that’s  inglorious  no  fame  can  be 
gained ; 

And  beauty  and  love ’s  the  reward  of  the 
brave, 

And  I must  deserve’  it  before  I can  crave. 

When  you  hear  the  trumpet’s  sound 
Tuttie  taittie  to  the  drums, 

Up  wi’  swords  and  down  wi’  guns, 
And  to  the  loons  again ! 

Fill,  fill  your  bumpers  high; 
Drain , drain  your  glasses  dry  ; 
Out  upon  him  !—fie  ! 0,  fie  /— 
That  winna  do  H again. 

Here ’s  to  the  King  o’  Swede ! 

Fresh  laurels  crown  his  head ! 
Shame  fa’  every  sneaking  blade 
That  winna  do ’t  again ! 

Fill,  fill  your  bumpers  high  ; 
Drain,  drain  your  glasses  dry  ; 

Then  glory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my  ex- 
cuse; 

Since  honor  commands  me,  how  can  I refuse  ? 

Without  it  I ne’er  can  have  merit  for  thee, 

And  without  thy  favor  I ’d  better  not  be. 

I gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honor  and  fame, 

And  if  I should  luck  to  come  gloriously  hame, 
’ll  bring  a heart  to  thee  with  love  running 
o’er, 

And  then  I’ll  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no 
more. 

Allan  Ramsay. 

Out  upon  him  !—fie  ! 0,  fie  ! — 
That  winna  do  '‘t  again. 

But  to  make  a’  things  right  now, 

He  that  drinks  maun  fight  too, 

To  show  his  heart ’s  upright  too, 

And  that  he  ’ll  do ’t  again. 

Fill,  fill  your  bumpers  high  ; 
Drain,  drain  your  glasses  dry  ; 
Out  upon  him  !—fie  ! 0,  fie  ! — 
That  winna  do  ’£  again. 

Anonymous 

HERE’S  TO  THE  KING,  SIR! 

CHARLIE  IS  MY  DARLING. 

Here ’s  to  the  King,  sir ! 

Ye  ken  wha  I mean,  sir — 

And  to  every  honest  man 
That  will  do ’t  again! 

Fill,  fill  your  bumpers  high; 
Drain,  drain  your  glasses  dry  ; 
Out  upon  him  !—fie  ! 0,  fie  ! — 
That  winna  do  H again . 

’ Twas  on  a Monday  morning 
Richt  early  in  the  year, 

That  Charlie  cam’  to  our  toun, 

The  young  Chevalier. 

And  Charlie  he ’s  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling  ; 
Charlie  he ’s  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier  ! 

Here ’s  to  the  chieftains 
Of  the  gallant  Highland  clans ! 

They  hae  done  it  mair  nor  ance, 
And  will  do ’t  again. 

Fill,  fill  your  bumpers  high  ; 
Drain,  drain  your  glasses  dry  ; 
Out  upon  him  !—fie  ! 0,  fie  ! — 
That  winna  do  H again. 

24 

As  he  was  walking  up  the  street, 
The  city  for  to  view, 

0,  there  he  spied  a bonnie  lass 
The  window  looking  through. 
And  Charlie  he 's  my  darling, 
My  darling,  my  darling  ; 
Charlie  he  ’«  my  darling. 

The  young  Chevalier  / 

8V0  POEMS  OF 

AMBITION. 

Say licht  ’she  jumped  up  the  stair, 

They  ’ll  live  or  die  wi’  fame,  Willie ! 

And  tirled  at  the  pin ; 

They  ’ll  live  or  die  wi’  fame ; 

And  wha  sae  ready  as  hersel’ 

But  soon,  wi’  sounding  victorie, 

To  let  the  laddie  in? 

May  Kenmure’s  lord  come  hame. 

And  Charlie  he ’s  my  darling , 

My  darling , my  darling  ; 

Here ’s  him  that ’s  far  awa,  Willie ! 

Charlie  he 's  my  darling, 

Here ’s  him  that ’s  far  awa ; 

The  young  Chevalier  ! 

And  here ’s  the  flower  that  I love  best — 

He  set  his  Jenny  on  his  knee, 

The  rose  that ’s  like  the  snaw ! 

Eobebt  Bubns. 

All  in  his  Highland  dress ; 

For  brawly  weel  he  kenned  the  way 
To  please  a bonnie  lass. 

And  Charlie  he 's  my  darling , 

HERE  ’S  A HEALTH  TO  THEM  THAT  ’S 

My  darling,  my  darling  ; 

AWA. 

Charlie  he ’s  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier! 

Heke ’s  a health  to  them  that ’s  awa, 

It ’s  up  yon  heathery  mountain, 

And  here ’s  to  them  that ’s  awa ; 

And  wha  winna  wish  guid  luck  to  our  cause, 

And  down  yon  scroggy  glen, 

May  never  guid  luck  be  their  fa’ ! 

We  daurna  gang  a-milking, 

It ’s  guid  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

For  Charlie  and  his  men. 

It ’s  guid  to  be  honest  and  true, 

And  Charlie  he 's  my  darling , 

It ’s  guid  to  support  Caledonia’s  cause, 

My  darling,  my  darling  ; 

And  bide  by  the  buff  and  the  blue. 

Charlie  he 's  my  darling, 

The  young  Chevalier! 

Here ’s  a health  to  them  that ’s  awa, 

Anonymous. 

And  here ’s  to  them  that ’s  awa ; 

t 

Here ’s  a health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o’  the 

KENMURE’S  OH  AND  AWA. 

clan, 

Altho’  that  his  band  be  sma’. 
May  liberty  meet  wi’  success ! 

0,  Kenmtjke ’s  on  and  awa,  Willie ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  fra  evil ! 

0,  Kenmure ’s  on  and  awa! 

May  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the  mist. 

And  Kenmure’s  lord ’s  the  bravest  lord 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil ! 

That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

Here ’s  a health  to  them  that ’s  awa, 

Success  to  Kenmure’s  band,  Willie ! 

And  here ’s  to  them  that ’s  awa ; 

Success  to  Kenmure’s  band ; 

Here ’s  a.  health  to  Tammie,  the  Norland  lad- 

There’s  no  a heart  that  fears  a Whig 

die, 

That  rides  by  Kenmure’s  hand. 

That  lives  at  the  lug  o’  the  law ! 

Here ’s  Kenmure’s  health  in  wine,  Willie ! 

Here ’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, 
Here ’s  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write  ! 

Here ’s  Kenmure’s  health  in  wine ; 

There’s  nane  ever  feared  that  the  truth 

There  ne’er  was  a coward  o’  Kenmure’s 

should  be  heard 

blude, 

But  they  wham  the  truth  wad  indite. 

Nor  yet  o’  Gordon’s  line. 

0,  Kenmure’s  lads  are  men,  Willie ! 

Here ’s  a health  to  them  that ’s  awa, 
And  here ’s  to  them  that ’s  awa ; 

0,  Kenmure’s  lads  are  men ; 

Here’s  Maitland  and  Wycombe,  and  wha 

Their  hearts  and  swords  are  metal  true — 

does  na  like  ’em 

And  that  their  faes  shall  ken. 

We  ’ll  build  in  a hole  o’  the  wa\ 

LOCHIEL’S 

WARNING.  371 

Here ’s  timmer  that  *s  red  at  the  heart, 
Here ’s  fruit  that ’s  sound  at  the  core ! 

LOCHIEL. 

May  he  that  would  turn  the  huff  and  blue  coat 

Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling 

Be  turned  to  the  hack  o’  the  door. 

seer! 

Or,  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear, 

Here ’s  a health  to  them  that ’s  awa, 

Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight 

And  here ’s  to  them  that’s  awa; 

Here ’s  Chieftain  M’Leod,  a chieftain  worth 

This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

gowd, 

WIZARD. 

Though  bred  amang  mountains  o’  snaw ! 

Ha!  laugh’st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to 

Here ’s  friends  on  baith  sides  o’  the  Forth, 

scorn  ? 

And  friends  on  haith  sides  o’  the  Tweed ; 

Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall 

And  wha  would  betray  old  Albion’s  rights, 

be  torn ! 

May  they  never  eat  of  her  bread ! 

Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 

Robert  Burns. 

From  his  home  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of 
the  north  ? 

Lo ! the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he 

LOCHIEL’S  WARNING. 

rode 

Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad ; 

Wizard — Lochiel. 

But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on 
high! 

wizard. 

Ah ! home  let  him  speed — for  the  spoiler  is 

Lochiel,  Lochiel ! beware  of  the  day 

nigh. 

When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle 

Why  flames  the  far  summit  ? Why  shoot  to 

array ! 

the  blast 

For  a field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 

Those  embers,  like  stars  from  the  firmament 

And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in 

cast? 

fight. 

’Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully 

They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and 

driven 

crown ; 

From  his  eyrie,  that  beacons  the  darkness  of 

Woe,  woe  to  the  riders  that  trample  them 

heaven. 

down! 

Oh,  crested  Lochiel ! the  peerless  in  might, 

Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the 

Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements’ 

slain, 

height, 

And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the 

Heaven’s  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to 

plain. 

burn ; 

But  hark ! through  the  fast-flashing  lightning 

Return  to  thy  dwelling ! all  lonely  return ! 

of  war 

For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where 

What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 

it  stood, 

’Tis  thine,  oh  Glenullin!  whose  bride  shall 

And  a wild  mother  scream  o’er  her  famishing 

await, 

Like  a love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the 

brood. 

gate. 

LOCHIEL. 

A steed  comes  at  morning : no  rider  is  there ; 

False  Wizard,  avaunt!  I have  marshalled  my 

But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 

clan; 

Weep,  Albin ! to  death  and  captivity  led — 

Their  swords  are  a thousand,  their  bosoms  are 

Oh  weep ! hut  thy  tears  cannot  number  the 

one! 

dead; 

They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and 

For  a merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 

their  breath, 

Culloden  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the 

And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of 

brave. 

death. 

372 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


Then  welcome  be  Cumberland’s  steed  to  the 
shock ! 

Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a wave  on 
the  rock ! 

But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  hib  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory 
crowd, 

Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the 
proud, 

All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array — 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel,  Lochiel ! beware  of  the  day ; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I may  seal, 
But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  re- 
veal; 

’Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 
I tell  thee,  Culloden’s  dread  echoes  shall  ring 
With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugi- 
tive king. 

Lo ! anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of 
wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path ! 
How  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from 
my  sight : 

Bise,  rise ! ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his 
flight ! 

’T  is  finished.  Their  thunders  are  hushed  on 
the  moors : 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 
But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ? 
where  ? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 
Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished, 
forlorn, 

Like  a limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and 
torn? 

Ah  no ! for  a darker  departure  is  near ; 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 
His  death-bell  is  tolling.  O ! Mercy,  dispel 
Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell! 
Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 
And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony 
swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 
Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases 
to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the 
gale 


LOCHIEL. 

Down,  soothless  insulter ! I trust  not  the 

tale ! 

For  never  shall  Albin  a destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed 
in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean- weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten 
shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  re- 
mains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the 
foe! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed 
of  fame. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


BORDER  BALLAD. 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale ! 

Why  the  de’il  dinna  ye  march  forward  in 
order  ? 

March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale ! 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  over  the  Border ! 
Many  a banner  spread 
Flutters  above  your  head, 

Many  a crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready,  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain  glen, 

Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish 
glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are 
grazing; 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the 
roe; 

Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing ; 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the 
bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding ; 

War-steeds  are  bounding; 

Stand  to  your  arms,  and  march  in  good  order. 
England  shall  many  a day 
Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 

When  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 


Sib  Walter  Scott. 


WAE  ’S  ME  FOR  PRINCE  CHARLIE.  373 

PIBROCH  OF  DONUIL  DHU. 

WAE ’S  ME  FOR  PRINCE  CHARLIE. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 
Pibroch  of  Donuil, 

Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew 
Summon  Clan-Conuil ! 
Come  away,  come  away — 
Hark  to  the  summons ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 
Gentles  and  Commons. 

A wee  bird  came  to  our  ha’  door ; 

He  warbled  sweet  and  clearly ; • 

And  aye  the  o’ercome  o’  his  sang 
Was  “Wae’sme  for  Prince  Charlie ! ” 
0 ! when  I heard  the  bonny,  bonny  bird, 
The  tears  came  drapping  rarely ; 

I took  my  bonnet  aff  my  head, 

For  weel  I lo’ed  Prince  Charlie. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 
From  mountain  so  rocky ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 
Are  at  Inverlochy. 

Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 
True  heart  that  wears  one ; 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 
Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Quoth  I : “ My  bird,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bird, 
Is  that  a tale  ye  borrow  ? 

Or  is ’t  some  words  ye  ’ve  learnt  by  rote, 

Or  a lilt  o’  dool  and  sorrow  ? ” 

“ 0 ! no,  no,  no ! ” the  wee  bird  sang, 

“I’ve  flown  sin’  morning  early ; 

But  sic  a day  o’  wind  and  rain ! — 

0 ! wae ’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie ! 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 
The  bride  at  the  altar ; 

Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 
Leave  nets  and  barges : 

Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 
Broadswords  and  targes. 

On  hills  that  are  by  right  his  ain 
He  roams  a lonely  stranger ; 

On  ilka  hand  he ’s  pressed  by  want, 
On  ilka  side  by  danger. 

Yestreen  I met  him  in  the  glen, 

My  heart  near  bursted  fairly ; 

For  sadly  changed  indeed  was  he- 
0 ! wae ’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie ! 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 
Forests  are  rended ; 

Come  as  the  waves  come  when 
Navies  are  stranded ! 

Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster — 

Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master ! 

• 

Dark  night  came  on ; the  tempest  howled 
Out  owre  the  hills  and  valleys ; 

And  whare  was ’t  that  your  Prince  lay  down, 
Whase  hame  should  be  a palace  ? 

He  rowed  him  in  a Highland  plaid, 

Which  covered  him  but  sparely, 

And  slept  beneath  a bush  o’  broom — 

0 ! wae ’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie ! ” 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come — 

See  how  they  gather ! 

Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 

Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 
Forward  each  man  set ! 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 

But  now  the  bird  saw  some  red  coats, 

And  he  shook  his  wings  wi’  anger: 

“ 0,  this  is  no  a land  for  me — 

I ’ll  tarry  here  nae  langer.” 

A while  he  hovered  on  the  wing, 

Ere  he  departed  fairly ; 

But  weel  I mind  the  farewell  strain, 

’T  was  “ Wae ’s  me  for  Prince  Charlie ! ” 
William  Glen. 

374 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


HAME,  HAME,  HAME! 

Hame,  hame,  hame ! O liame  I fain  would  be ! 

O hame,  hame,  hame,  to  my  ain  countrie ! 

When  the  flower  is  i’  the  bud  and  the  leaf  is 
on  the  tree, 

The  lark  shall  sing  me  hame  to  my  ain  coun- 
trie. 

Hame.  hame , hame  ! 0 hame  I fain  would  be  ! 

0 hame , hame,  hame , to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  green  leaf  o’  loyaltie ’s  beginning  now  to 
fa’; 

The  bonnie  white  rose,  it  is  withering  an’  a’ ; 

But  we  ’ll  water  it  wi’  the  bluid  of  usurping 
tyrannie, 

And  fresh  it  shall  blaw  in  my  ain  countrie ! 

Hame , hame , hame  ! 0 hame  I fain  would  be  ! 

0 hame , hame , hame , to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

O there ’s  nocht  now  frae  ruin  my  countrie 
can  save, 

But  the  keys  o’  kind  Heaven  to  open  the  grave, 

That  a’  the  noble  martyrs  who  died  for  loy- 
altie 

May  rise  again  and  fight  for  their  ain  countrie. 

Hame , hame , hame  ! 0 hame  I fain  would  be  ! 

0 hame , hame , hame , to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

The  great  now  are  gone  wha  attempted  to  save, 

The  green  grass  is  growing  abune  their 
grave ; 

Yet  the  sun  through  the  mist  seems  to  prom- 
ise to  me, 

“ I ’ll  shine  on  ye  yet  in  your  ain  countrie.” 

Hame , hame,  hame  ! 0 hame  1 fain  would  be! 

0 hame , hame , hame,  to  my  ain  countrie  ! 

Allan  Cunningham. 


THE  SUN  RISES  BRIGHT  IN  FRANCE. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  France, 

And  fair  sets  he ; 

But  he  has  tint  the  blythe  blink  he  had 
In  my  ain  countrie. 

O gladness  comes  to  many, 

But  sorrow  comes  to  me, 

As  I look  o’er  the  wide  ocean 
To  my  ain  countrie. 


O it’s  nae  my  ain  ruin 

That  saddens  aye  my  e’e, 

But  the  love  I left  in  Galloway, 

Wi’  bonnie  baimies  three. 

My  hamely  hearth  burnt  bonnie, 

An’  smiled  my  fair  Marie : 

I ’ve  left  my  heart  behind  me 
In  my  ain  countrie. 

The  bud  comes  back  to  summer, 

And  the  blossom  to  the  bee ; 

But  I ’ll  win  back — O never, 

To  my  ain  countrie. 

I ’m  leal  to  the  high  Heaven, 

Which  will  be  leal  to  me, 

An’  there  I ’ll  meet  ye  a’  sune 
Frae  my  ain  countrie. 

Allan  Cunningham. 


SONG. 

As  by  the  shore,  at  break  of  day, 

A vanquished  chief  expiring  lay, 

Upon  the  sands,  with  broken  sword, 

He  traced  his  farewell  to  the  free  ; 
And,  there,  the  last  unfinished  word 
He  dying  wrote,  was  “ Liberty ! ” 

At  night  a sea-bird  shrieked  the  knell 
Of  him  who  thus  for  Freedom  fell; 

The  words  he  wrote,  ere  evening  came, 
Were  covered  by  the  sounding  sea; — 
So  pass  away  the  cause  and  name 
Of  him  who  dies  for  Liberty ! 

Thomas  Moobh. 


THE  HARP  THAT  ONCE  THROUGH 
TARA’S  HALLS. 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara’s  halls 
The  soul  of  music  shed, 

Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara’s  walls, 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 

So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory’s  thrill  is  o’er, 

And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise. 
Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 


SHAN  VAN  VOCHT. 


375 


NTo  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 
The  harp  of  Tara  swells; 

The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 
Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 

Thns  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 
The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks 
To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

Thomas  Mooee. 


PEACE  TO  THE  SLUMBERERS. 

Peace  to  the  slumberers ! 

They  lie  on  the  battle-plain, 

With  no  shrond  to  cover  them; 

The  dew  and  the  summer  rain 
Are  all  that  weep  over  them. 

Peace  to  the  slumberers ! 

Vain  was  their  bravery! 

The  fallen  oak  lies  where  it  lay 
Across  the  wintry  river ; 

But  brave  hearts,  once  swept  away, 
Are  gone,  alas ! forever. 

Vain  was  their  bravery ! 

Woe  to  the  conqueror ! 

Our  limbs  shall  lie  as  cold  as  theirs 
Of  whom  his  sword  bereft  us, 

Ere  we  forget  the  deep  arrears 
Of  vengeance  they  have  left  us ! 

Woe  to  the  conqueror ! 

Thomas  Mooee. 


ODE. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country’s  wishes  blessed ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy’s  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung ; 

By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a pilgrim  gray, 

To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 

To  dwell  a weeping  hermit  there ! 

William  Collins. 


SHAH  VANT  VOCHT. 

O ! the  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 

The  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ! 

0 ! the  French  are  in  the  bay ; 

They  ’ll  be  here  without  delay, 

And  the  Orange  will  decay, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

0 ! the  French  are  in  the  bay, 
They  'll  be  here  by  break  of  day, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay , 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht . 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 

Where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 

On  the  Currach  of  Kildare  ; 

The  boys  they  will  be  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

To  the  Currach  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  will  repair, 

And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Then  what  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 

What  will  the  yeomen  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 

What  should  the  yeomen  do, 

But  throw  off  the  Red  and  Blue, 

And  swear  that  they  ’ll  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht? 

What  should  the  yeoman  do, 

But  throw  off  the  Red  and  Blue , 
And  swear  that  they  'll  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ! 

And  what  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 

What  color  will  they  wear? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht; 

What  color  should  be  seen, 

Where  our  fathers’  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  Green  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


What  color  should  he  seen, 

Where  our  fathers'1  homes  hate  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  Green  ? 

Bays  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  he  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Yocht ; 

Will  Ireland  then  he  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yocht! 

Yes ! Ireland  shall  he  free, 

From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 

Then  hnrra ! for  Liberty ! 

Says  the  Shan  Yan  Yocht. 

Yes  ! Ireland  shall  he  free, 

From  the  centre  to  the  sea  ; 

Then  hurra  ! for  Liberty  ! 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Anonymous. 


GOD  SAYE  THE  KING. 

God  save  onr  gracious  King ! 

Long  live  our  noble  King ! 

God  save  the  King ! 

Send  him  victorious, 

Happy  and  glorious, 

Long  to  reign  over  us — 

God  save  the  King ! 

O,  Lord  our  God,  arise ! 

Scatter  his  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall ; 

Confound  their  politics, 

Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks; 

On  him  our  hopes  we  fix, 

God  save  us  all ! 

Thy  choicest  gifts  in  store 
On  him  be  pleased  to  pour ; 

Long  may  he  reign. 

May  he  defend  our  laws, 

And  ever  give  us  cause 
To  sing  with  heart  and  voice — 

God  save  the  King ! 

Anonymous. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 
NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  AIX. 

I sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he : 

I galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all 
three ; 

“ Good  speed ! ” cried  the  watch  as  the  gate- 
bolts  undrew, 

“ Speed ! ” echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping 
through. 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to 
rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a word  to  each  other ; we  kept  the  great 
pace — 

Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  chang- 
ing our  place ; 

I turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths 
tight, 

Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the 
pique  right, 

Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker 
the  bit, 

Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a whit. 

’Twas  a moonset  at  starting ; hut  while  we 
drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawn- 
ed clear ; 

At  Boom  a great  yellow  star  came  out  to 
see; 

At  Diiffeld  ’twas  morning  as  plain  as  could 
be; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard 
the  half-chime — 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with  “ Yet  there  is 
time ! 

At  Aerschot  up  leaped  of  a sudden  the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every 
one, 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping 
past ; 

And  I saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its 
spray; 


INDIAN  DEATH  SONG. 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp 
ear  bent  back 

For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on 
his  track ; 

And  one  eye’s  black  intelligence, — ever  that 
glance 

O’er  its  white  edge  at  me,  its  own  master, 
askance ; 

And  the  thick  heavy  spume- flakes,  which  aye 
and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris, 
“ Stay  spur ! 

Your  Boos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault’s  not 
in  her ; 

We  ’ll  remember  at  Aix” — for  one  heard  the 
quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and 
staggering  knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the 
flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and 
sank. 


So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the 
sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a pitiless  laugh ; 

’ Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stub- 
ble like  chaff ; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a dome-spire  sprang 
white, 

And  “ Gallop  ” gasped  Joris,  “ for  Aix  is  in 
sight ! ” 

“How  they’ll  greet  us!” — and  all  in  a mo- 
ment his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a 
stone ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole 
weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from 
her  fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the 
brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets’ 
rim. 


3 11 

Then  I cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster 
let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and 
all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his 
ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse 
without  peer — 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sung,  any 
noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and 
stood. 

And  all  I remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I sate  with  his  head  ’twixt  my  knees  on 
the  ground ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland 
of  mine, 

As  I poured  down  his  throat  our  last  meas- 
ure of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  con- 
sent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good 
news  from  Ghent. 

Kobekt  Bkowning. 


INDIAN  DEATH-SONG. 

The  sun  sets  in  night,  and  the  stars  shun 
the  day ; 

But  glory  remains  when  their  lights  fade 
away. 

Begin,  you  tormentors!  your  threats  are  in 
vain, 

For  the  son  of  Alknomook  will  never  com- 
plain. 

Remember  the  arrows  he  shot  from  his  bow ; 

Remember  your  chiefs  by  his  hatchet  laid 
low ! 

Why  so  slow  ? do  you  wait  till  I shrink  from 
the  pain? 

No ! the  son  of  Alknomook  shall  never  com- 
plain. 

Remember  the  wood  where  in  ambush  we 
lay, 

And  the  scalps  which  we  bore  from  your 
nation  away. 


378  POEMS  OF 

AMBITION. 

Now  the  flame  rises  fast,  you  exult  in  my 

Where  with  beasts  of  chase  each  wood, 

pain ; 

Where  with  birds  each  tree, 

But  the  son  of  Alknomook  can  never  com- 

Where  with  fish  is  every  flood 

plain. 

Stocked  full  pleasantly. 

I go  to  the  land  where  my  father  is  gone ; 

He  above  with  spirits  feeds ; — 

His  ghost  shall  rejoice  in  the  fame  of  his  son. 

We,  alone  and  dim, 

Death  comes,  like  a friend,  to  relieve  me  from 

Left  to  celebrate  his  deeds, 

pain; 

And  thy  son,  0 Alknomook ! has  scorned  to 

And  to  bury  him. 

complain. 

Anne  Hunter. 

Bring  the  last  sad  offerings  hither ; 
Chant  the  death-lament ; 

— 

All  inter,  with  him  together, 
That  can  him  content. 

INDIAN"  DEATH-SONG. 

’ Neath  his  head  the  hatchet  hide 
That  he  swung  so  strong ; 

And  the  bear’s  ham  set  beside, — 

Ox  the  mat  he ’s  sitting  there — 
See ! he  sits  upright — 

With  the  same  look  that  he  ware 

For  the  way  is  long ; 

When  he  saw  the  light. 

Then  the  knife — sharp  let  it  be — 
That  from  foeman’s  crown, 

Quick,  with  dexterous  cuts  but  three, 

But  where  now  the  hand’s  clenched 
weight  ? 

Skin  and  tuft  brought  down ; 

Where  the  breath  he  drew, 

Paints,  to  smear  his  frame  about, 

That  to  the  Great  Spirit  late 

Set  within  his  hand, 

Forth  the  pipe-smoke  blew? 

That  he  redly  may  shine  out 
In  the  spirits’  land. 

Where  the  eyes  that,  falcon-keen, 

Frederick  Schiller.  (German.) 

Marked  the  reindeer  pass, 
By  the  dew  upon  the  green, 
By  the  waving  grass? 

Translation  of  N.  L.  Frothingham. 

These  the  limbs  that,  unconfined, 

THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM 

Bounded  through  the  snow, 

Like  the  stag  that ’s  twenty-tyned, 

FATHERS  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Like  the  mountain  roe ! 

“ Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
Those  populous  borders— wide  the  wood  recedes, 
And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  arc  tilled ; 

These  the  arms  that,  stout  and  tense, 

The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads.” 

Did  the  bow-string  twang ! 
See,  the  life  is  parted  hence ! 
See,  how  loose  they  hang ! 

Brtant. 

TnE  breaking  waves  dashed  high, 

Well  for  him ! he ’s  gone  his  ways, 

On  a stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

Where  are  no  more  snows ; 

And  the  woods  against  a stormy  sky 

Where  the  fields  are  decked  with  maize 
That  unplanted  grows ; — 

Their  giant  branches  tossed; 

CARMEN  BELLICOSUM. 


And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o’er, 

When  a band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 
On  the  wild  New-England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear ; — 

They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 
With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ; 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods 
rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free ! 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 
From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave’s  foam ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared — 
This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 
Amidst  that  pilgrim  band : 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood’s  land? 

There  was  woman’s  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love’s  truth ; 

There  was  manhood’s  brow  serenely  high, 
And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 

The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a faith's  pure  shrine  I 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod. 

They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they 
found — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Felicia  Hemans. 


SYS 


CARMEN  BELLICOSUM. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 

When  the  Grenadiers  were  lunging, 

And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 
Cannon-shot ; 

When  the  files 
Of  the  isles, 

From  the  smoky  night  encampment,  bore  the 
banner  of  the  rampant 
Unicorn, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  the 
roll  of  the  drummer, 

Through  the  morn ! 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 

And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires ; 

And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 

And  in  streams  flashing  redly 
Blazed  the  fires ; 

As  the  roar 
On  the  shore, 

Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o’er  the 
green-sodded  acres 
Of  the  plain ; 

And  louder,  louder,  louder,  cracked  the 
black  gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain ! 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Worked  the  red  St.  George’s 
Cannoniers ; 

And  the  “ villainous  saltpetre  ” 

Rang  a fierce,  discordant  metre 
Round  their  ears ; 

As  the  swift 
Storm-drift, 

With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse- 
guards’  clangor 
On  our  flanks. 

Then  higher,  higher,  higher,  burned  the  old- 
fashioned  fire 
Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  Colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 
Powder-cloud ; 


380 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


And  his  broad  sword  was  swinging, 

And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 

Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 

And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch 
of  the  leaden 
Rifle-breath. 

And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder,  roared  the 
iron  six-pounder, 

Hurling  death! 

Guy  Humpheey  McMastee. 


SONG  OF  MARION’S  MEN. 

Oub  band  is  few,  hut  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  hold ; 

The  British  soldier  trembles 
When  Marion’s  name  is  told. 

Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree ; 

We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 

We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 

Its  safe  and  silent  islands 
Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery 
That  little  dread  us  near ! 

On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 
A strange  and  sudden  fear, 

When,  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 

And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 
Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 

And  they  who  fly  in  terror,  deem 
A mighty  host  behind, 

And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 
Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 
From  danger  and  from  toil; 

We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle’s  spoil. 

The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 
As  if  a hunt  were  up, 

And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 
To  crown  the  soldier’s  cup. 


With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 
That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 

And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 
On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  hand  that  Marion  leads — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 

’T  is  life  to  guide  the  fiery  barb 
Across  the  moonlight  plain ; 

’T  is  life  to  feel  the  night- wind 
That  lifts  his  tossing  mane. 

A moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A moment — and  away! 

Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 
Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs ; 

Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 

And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  hand 
With  kindliest  welcoming, 

With  smiles  like  those  of  Summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  Spring. 

For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 
And  lay  them  down  no  more 

Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

For  ever,  from  our  shore. 

William  Cullen  Bet  ant. 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

0!  sat,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn’s  early 
light 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight’s 
last  gleaming — 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through 
the  perilous  fight, 

O’er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gal- 
lantly streaming ! 

And  the  rocket’s  red  glare,  the  bombs  burst- 
ing in  air 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag 
was  still  there ; 

O!  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet 
wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of 
the  brave? 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 


381 


On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists 
of  the  deep, 

Where  the  foe’s  haughty  host  in  dread  silence 
reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o’er  the  tow- 
ering steep, 

As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  dis- 
closes ? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning’s 
first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the 
stream ; 

’Tis  the  star-spangled  banner;  O long  may  it 
wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the 
brave ! 

And  where  is  that  hand  who  so  vauntingly 
swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle’s  con- 
fusion 

A home  and  a country  should  leave  us  no 
more? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  foot- 
steps’ pollution. 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the 
grave ; 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth 
wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the 
brave. 

0 ! thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall 
stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war’s 
desolation ! 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heav- 
en-rescued land 

Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  pre- 
served us  a nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just; 

And  this  be  our  motto — “In  God  is  our 
trust  ” — 

And  the  spar-spangled  banner  in  triumph 
shall  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the 
brave. 

Francis  Scott  Kby. 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

i. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there ; 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

n. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

Who  rear’st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 

To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 

And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun ! to  thee ’t  is  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free. 

To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 

To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 

And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 

Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

nr. 

Flag  of  the  brave ! thy  folds  shall  fly, 

The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 

And  the  long  fine  comes  gleaming  on; 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 

Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 

Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn  * 

To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 

And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 

Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance ; 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreathes  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight’s  pall ; 

Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


382 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


IY. 

Flag  of  the  seas ! on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o’er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 

Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside’s  reeling  rack, 

Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 

Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o’er  his  closing  eye. 

v. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart’s  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ; 

Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  horn  in  heaven. 
For  ever  float  that  standard  sheet! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom’s  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom’s  banner  streaming  o’er  us? 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


“O  MOTHER  OF  A MIGHTY  RACE.” 

O mother  of  a mighty  race, 

Yet  lovely  in  thy  youthful  grace! 

The  elder  dames,  thy  haughty  peers, 
Admire  and  hate  thy  blooming  years ; 

With  words  of  shame 
And  taunts  of  scorn  they  join  thy  name. 

For  on  thy  cheeks  the  glow  is  spread 
That  tints  thy  morning  hills  with  red ; 

Thy  step — the  wild  deer’s  rustling  feet 
Within  thy  woods  are  not  more  fleet ; 

Thy  hopeful  eye 

Is  bright  as  thine  own  sunny  sky. 

Ay,  let  them  rail — those  haughty  ones, 
While  safe  thou  dwellest  with  thy  sons! 
They  do  not  know  how  loved  thou  art, 

How  many  a fond  and  fearless  heart 
Would  rise  to  throw 
Its  life  between  thee  and  the  foe. 

They  know  not,  in  their  hate  and  pride, 
What  virtues  with  thy  children  bide — 


How  true,  how  good,  thy  graceful  maids 
Make  bright,  like  flowers,  the  valley  shades ; 
What  generous  men 

Spring,  like  thine  oaks,  by  hill  and  glen; 

What  cordial  welcomes  greet  the  guest 
By  thy  lone  rivers  of  the  West; 

How  faith  is  kept,  and  truth  revered, 

And  man  is  loved,  and  God  is  feared, 

In  woodland  homes, 

And  where  the  ocean  border  foams. 

There ’s  freedom  at  thy  gates,  and  rest 
For  Earth’s  down-trodden  and  opprest, 

A shelter  for  the  hunted  head, 

For  the  starved  laborer  toil  and  bread. 

Power,  at  thy  bounds, 

Stops,  and  calls  back  his  baffled  hounds. 

Oh,  fair  young  mother!  on  thy  brow 
Shall  sit  a nobler  grace  than  now. 

Deep  in  the  brightness  of  thy  skies, 

The  thronging  years  in  glory  rise, 

And,  as  they  fleet, 

Drop  strength  and  riches  at  thy  feet. 

Thine  eye,  with  every  coming  hour, 

Shall  brighten,  and  thy  form  shall  tower ; 
And  when  thy  sisters,  elder  born, 

Would  brand  thy  name  with  words  of  scorn 
Before  thine  eye 

Upon  their  lips  the  taunt  shall  die. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


OUR  STATE. 

The  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 

And  sunset’s  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold ! 

Rough,  bleak  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait ; 

Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 

Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 

Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 

Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 


THE  OLD  CONSTITUTION. 


383 


Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 

And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands ; 
And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  commonwealth 
Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health ; 
And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 

The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 

And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause ! 

Nor  heeds  the  sceptic’s  puny  hands, 

While  near  her  school  the  church-spire 
stands ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot’s  rule, 

While  near  her  church-spire  stands  the 
school ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet’s  sands, 

Were  trampled  by  a hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never  shall  the  land  forget 
How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  courage  yet, 
Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm,  and  fresh,  and  still ; 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 

And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 
The  black-mouthed  gun  and 
wain ; 

Men  start  not  at  the  battle-cry — 

O,  be  it  never  heard  again ! 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought ; but  thou 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 
For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 

Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life 


A friendless  warfare ! lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year; 

A wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front,  and  flank,  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 

And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot  ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not. 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 

The  foul  and  hissing  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 

The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again — 
The  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 

But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  they  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 

Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here ! 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet’s  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o’er  thy  grave. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


THE  OLD  CONSTITUTION. 

At,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 

And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 
That  banner  in  the  sky ; 

Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon’s  roar , — 

The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more ! 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes’  blood, 
Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o’er  the  flood, 
And  waves  were  white  below, 

No  more  shall  feel  the  victor’s  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; — 

The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 
The  eagle  of  the  sea ! 


staggering 


384  POEMS  OF 

AMBITION. 

0 better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ; — 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 
And  there  should  be  her  grave ! 

Hail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 

And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning  and  the  gale ! 

Oliyek  Wendell  Holmes. 

Why,  in  thy  sheath  upspringing, 
Thou  wild,  dear  steel,  art  ringing  ? 
Why  clanging  with  delight, 

So  eager  for  the  fight  ? 

Hurrah ! 

“Well  may  thy  scabbard  rattle, 
Trooper,  I pant  for  battle ; 

Right  eager  for  the  fight, 

I clang  with  wild  delight. 

Hurrah ! ” 

KORNER’S  SWORD  SONG, 

COMPLETED  ONE  HOUR  BEFORE  HE  FELL  ON 
THE  BATTLE-FIELD,  AUG.  28,  1813. 

Sword  at  my  left  side  gleaming ! 

Why  is  thy  keen  glance,  beaming, 

So  fondly  bent  on  mine  ? 

T love  that  smile  of  thine ! 

Hurrah ! 

Why  thus  my  love  forth  creeping? 
Stay,  in  thy  chamber  sleeping ; 

Wait,  still,  in  the  narrow  room; 
Soon  for  my  bride  I come. 

Hurrah ! 

“ Keep  me  not  longer  pining ! 

0,  for  Love’s  garden,  shining 
With  roses  bleeding  red, 

And  blooming  with  the  dead ! 

Hurrah ! ” 

“ Borne  by  a trooper  daring, 

My  looks  his  fire-glance  wearing, 

I arm  a freeman’s  hand : 

This  well  delights  thy  brand ! 

Hurrah ! ” 

Come  from  thy  sheath,  then,  treasure ! 
Thou  trooper’s  true  eye-pleasure ! 

Come  forth,  my  good  sword,  come ! 
Enter  thy  father-home ! 

Hurrah ! 

Ay,  good  sword,  free  I wear  thee ; 
And,  true  heart’s  love,  I bear  thee, 
Betrothed  one,  at  my  side, 

As  my  dear,  chosen  bride ! 

Hurrah ! 

“Ha ! in  the  free  air  glancing, 

How  brave  this  bridal  dancing  J 
How,  in  the  sun’s  glad  beams, 
Bride-like,  thy  bright  steel  gleams ! 

Hurrah ! ” 

“To  thee  till  death  united, 

Thy  steel’s  bright  life  is  plighted ; 
Ah,  were  my  love  but  tried ! 
When  wilt  thou  wed  thy  bride  ? 

Hurrah ! ” 

Come  on,  ye  German  horsemen ! 

Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen ! 

Swells  not  your  hearts’  warm  tide  ? 
Clasp  each  in  hand  his  bride  ! 

Hurrah ! 

The  trumpet’s  festal  warning 
Shall  hail  our  bridal  morning ; 
When  loud  the  cannon  chide, 
Then  clasp  I my  loved  bride ! 

Hurrah ! 

Once  at  your  left  side  sleeping, 

Scarce  her  veiled  glance  forth  peeping ; 
Now,  wedded  with  your  right, 

God  plights  your  bride  in  the  light. 

Hurrah ! 

“ 0,  joy,  when  thine  arms  hold  me ! 

I pine  until  they  fold  me. 

Come  to  me ! bridegroom  come ! 
Thine  is  my  maiden  bloom. 

Hurrah ! ” 

Then  press  with  warm  caresses, 
Close  lips  and  bridal  kisses, 

Your  steel ; — cursed  be  his  head 
Who  fails  the  bride  he  wed ! 

Hurrah ! 

HOHENLINDEN. 


Now,  till  your  swords  flash,  flinging 
Clear  sparks  forth,  wave  them  singing ; 
Day  dawns  for  bridal  pride  ; 
Hurrah,  thou  iron  bride  ! 

Hurrah ! 

Karl  Theodor  Kobner  (German). 
Translation  of  W.  B.  Chorley. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 

i. 

You  know  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A mile  or  so  away, 

On  a little  mound,  Napoleon 
Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 

With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 

As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

n. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  “My  plans 
That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 

Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 
Waver  at  yonder  wall,” — 

Out  ’twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 
A rider,  hound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ; nor  bridle  drew 
Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

in. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse’s  mane,  a boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 

(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 

You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 
Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV. 

“Well,”  cried  he,  “Emperor,  by  God’s  grace 
We’ve  got  you  Ratisbon! 

The  Marshal’s  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  ’ll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 
Where  I,  to  heart’s  desire, 

Perched  him ! ” The  chief’s  eye  flashed ; his 
plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


385 


V. 

The  chief’s  eye  flashed ; but  presently 
Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A film  the  mother  eagle’s  eye 
When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
“You’re  wounded!”  “Nay,”  his  soldier’s 
pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 

“ I ’m  killed,  sire ! ” And,  his  chief  beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Eobert  Browning. 


HOHENLINDEN. 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 

All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 

Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven ; 
Then  rushed  the  steeds  to  battle  driven ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 

Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  those  fires  shall  glow 
On  Linden’s  hills  of  crimsoned  snow, 

And  bloodier  yet  shall  be  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

’T  is  morn ; but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.  On,  ye  brave, 

Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave ! 

Wave,  Munich!  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 


386 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  he  their  winding-sheet ; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  he  a soldier’s  sepulchre. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  CHAEGE  OF  THE  LIGHT  BRI- 
GADE AT  BALAKLAVA. 

Half  a league,  half  a league, 

Half  a league  onward, 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death, 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Into  the  valley  of  Death 
Rode  the  Six  Hundred; 

For  up  came  an  order  which 
Some  one  had  blundered. 

“ Forward,  the  Light  Brigade ! 

Take  the  guns ! ” Nolan  said ; 

Into  the  valley  of  Death, 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

“Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!  ” 

No  man  was  there  dismayed — 

Not  though  the  soldiers  knew 
Some  one  had  blundered  : 

Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 

Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 

Theirs  hut  to  do  and  die — 

Into  the  valley  of  Death, 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well; 

Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Into  the  mouth  of  hell, 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  hare, 
Flashed  all  at  once  in  air, 

Sabring  the  gunners  there, 

Charging  an  army,  while 
All  the  world  wondered. 


Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke, 

With  many  a desp’rate  stroke 
The  Russian  line  they  broke ; 

Then  they  rode  back,  but  not — 

Not  the  Six  Hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered. 

Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 

Those  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  from  the  jaws  of  Death, 

Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  Six  Hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 

O the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 

Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 

Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  Six  Hundred ! 

Alfked  Tennyson. 


YE  MARINERS  OF  ENGLAND : 

A NAVAL  ODE. 

Ye  Mariners  of  England ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a thousand  years 
The  battle  and  the  breeze ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 
To  match  another  foe ! 

And  sweep  through  the  deep 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 

While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

n. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave ! — 

For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave. 

Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 


387 


As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep 
"While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

m. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 

Her  march  is  o’er  the  mountain- wave, 
Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 
She  quells  the  floods  below, 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore 
When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow — 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

IV. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 

Till  danger’s  troubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 

Then,  then,  ye  ocean-warriors ! 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow — 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC. 

i. 

Op  Nelson  and  the  North 
Sing  the  glorious  day’s  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark’s  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly 
shone ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 
In  a bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

ii. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line — 


It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime. 

As  they  drifted  on  their  path 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a time. 

in. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O’er  the  deadly  space  between. 

“ Hearts  of  oak ! ” our  captain  cried ; when 
each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

IV. 

Again!  again!  again! 

And  the  havock  did  not  slack, 

Till  a feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back ; 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom— 
Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 

Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 

Light  the  gloom. 

v. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 

As  he  hailed  them  o’er  the  wave : 

“Ye  are  brothers ! ye  are  men ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save ; 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring ; 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 

With  the  crews,  at  England’s  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king.” 

VI. 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the 
day. 

While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O’er  a wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 


388 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


YH. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise! 

For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 

By  the  festal  cities’  blaze, 

Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 

And  yet,  amidst  that,  joy  and  uproar, 

Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a fathom  deep, 

By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 

Elsinore ! 

vm. 

Brave  hearts ! to  Britain’s  pride 
Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou — 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o’er  their 
grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid’s  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 
Of  the  brave ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  SEA  FIGHT. 

AS  TOLD  BY  AN  ANCIENT  MAEINEE. 

Ah,  yes — the  fight ! Well,  messmates,  well, 
I served  on  board  that  Ninety-eight ; 

Yet  what  I saw  I loathe  to  tell. 

To-night,  he  sure  a crushing  weight 
Upon  my  sleeping  breast — a hell 
Of  dread  will  sit.  At  any  rate, 

Though  land-locked  here,  a watch  I ’ll  keep — 
Grog  cheers  us  still.  Who  cares  for  sleep  ? 

That  Ninety-eight  I sailed  on  board ; 

Along  the  Frenchman’s  coast  we  flew ; 
Right  aft  the  rising  tempest  roared ; 

A noble  first-rate  hove  in  view ; 

And  soon  high  in  the  gale  there  soared 
Her  streamed-out  bunting — red,  white, 
blue! 

We  cleared  for  fight,  and  landward  bore, 

To  get  between  the  chase  and  shore. 

Masters,  I cannot  spin  a yarn 
Twice  laid  with  words  of  silken  stuff. 

A fact ’s  a fact ; and  ye  may  larn 
The  rights  o’  this,  though  wild  and  rough 


My  words  may  loom.  ’T  is  your  consarn, 
Not  mine,  to  understand.  Enough ; — 

We  neared  the  Frenchman  where  he  lay, 
And  as  we  neared,  he  blazed  away. 

We  tacked,  hove  to ; we  filled,  we  wore  ; 

Did  all  that  seamanship  could  do 
To  rake  him  aft,  or  by  the  fore — 

Now  rounded  off*  and  now  broached  to ; 
And  now  our  starboard  broadside  bore, 

And  showers  of  iron  through  and  through 
His  vast  hull  hissed ; our  larboard  then 
Swept  from  his  three-fold  decks  his  men. 

As  we,  like  a huge  serpent,  toiled, 

And  wound  about,  through  that  wild  sea, 
The  Frenchman  each  manoeuvre  foiled — 
’Vantage  to  neither  there  could  be. 

Whilst  thus  the  waves  between  us  boiled, 

We  both  resolved  right  manfully 
To  fight  it  side  by  side ; — began 
Then  the  fierce  strife  of  man  to  man. 

Gun  bellows  forth  to  gun,  and  pain 
Rings  out  her  wild,  delirious  scream ! 
Redoubling  thunders  shake  the  main ; 

Loud  crashing,  falls  the  shot-rent  beam. 
The  timbers  with  the  broadsides  strain ; 

The  slippery  decks  send  up  a steam 
From  hot  and  living  blood — and  high 
And  shrill  is  heard  the  death-pang  cry. 

The  shredded  limb,  the  splintered  bone, 

Th’  unstiffened  corpse,  now  block  the  way ! 
Who  now  can  hear  the  dying  groan  ? 

The  trumpet  of  the  judgment  day, 

Had  it  pealed  forth  its  mighty  tone, 

We  should  not  then  have  heard, — to  say 
Would  be  rank  sin;  but  this  I tell, 

That  could  alone  our  madness  quell. 

Upon  the  fore-castle  I fought 
As  captain  of  the  for’ad  gun. 

A scattering  shot  the  carriage  caught  I 
What  mother  then  had  known  her  son 
Of  those  who  stood  around  ? — distraught, 
And  smeared  with  gore,  about  they  run, 
Then  fall,  and  writhe,  and  howling  die ! 

But  one  escaped — that  one  was  I ! 


C AS  AB I AN  C A. 


38S 


Night  darkened  round,  and  the  storm  pealed, 
To  windward  of  ns  lay  the  foe. 

As  he  to  leeward  over  keeled, 

He  could  not  fight  his  guns  below ; 

So  just  was  going  to  strike — when  reeled 
Our  vessel,  as  if  some  vast  blow 
From  an  Almighty  hand  had  rent 
The  huge  ship  from  her  element. 

Then  howled  the  thunder.  Tumult  then 
Had  stunned  herself  to  silence.  Round 
Were  scattered  lightning-blasted  men! 

Our  mainmast  went.  All  stifled,  drowned, 
Arose  the  Frenchman’s  shout.  Again 
The  bolt  burst  on  us,  and  we  found 
Our  masts  all  gone — our  decks  all  riven : 

— Man’s  war  mocks  faintly  that  of  Heaven ! 

Just  then — nay,  messmates,  laugh  not  now — 
As  I,  amazed,  one  minute  stood 
Amidst  that  rout ; I know  not  how — 

’T  was  silence  all — the  raving  flood, 

The  guns  that  pealed  from  stem  to  bow, 

And  God’s  own  thunder — nothing  could 
I then  of  all  that  tumult  hear, 

Or  see  aught  of  that  scene  of  fear. 

My  aged  mother  at  her  door 
Sat  mildly  o’er  her  humming  wheel ; 

The  cottage,  orchard,  and  the  moor — 

I saw  them  plainly  all.  I’ll  kneel, 

And  swear  I saw  them ! Oh,  they  wore 
A look  all  peace.  Could  I but  feel 
Again  that  bliss  that  then  I felt, 

That  made  my  heart,  like  childhood’s,  melt ! 

The  blessed  tear  was  on  my  cheek, 

She  smiled  with  that  old  smile  I know : 

“ Turn  to  me,  mother,  turn  and  speak,” 

Was  on  my  quivering  lips — when  lo ! 

All  vanished,  and  a dark,  red  streak 
Glared  wild  and  vivid  from  the  foe, 

That  flashed  upon  the  blood-stained  water — 
For  fore  and  aft  the  flames  had  caught  her. 

She  struck  and  hailed  us.  On  us  fast 
All  burning,  helplessly,  she  came — 

Near,  and  more  near ; and  not  a mast 
Had  we  to  help  us  from  that  flame. 

Twas  then  the  bravest  stood  aghast — 

’Twas  then  the  wicked,  on  the  name 
(With  danger  and  with  guilt  appalled,) 

Of  God,  too  long  neglected,  called. 


Th’  eddying  flames  with  ravening  tongue 
Now  on  our  ship’s  dark  bulwarks  dash — 
We  almost  touched — when  ocean  rung 
Down  to  its  depths  with  one  loud  crash  1 
In  heaven’s  top  vault  one  instant  hung 
The  vast,  intense,  and  blinding  flash ! 

Then  all  was  darkness,  stillness,  dread — 

The  wave  moaned  o’er  the  valiant  dead. 

She ’s  gone ! blown  up ! that  gallant  foe ! 

And  though  she  left  us  in  a plight, 

We  floated  still ; long  were,  I know, 

And  hard,  the  labors  of  that  night 
To  clear  the  wreck.  At  length  in  tow 
A frigate  took  us,  when ’t.  was  light ; 

And  soon  an  English  port  we  gained — 

A hulk  all  battered  and  blood-stained. 

So  many  slain — so  many  drowned! 

I like  not  of  that  fight  to  tell. 

Come,  let  the  cheerful  grog  go  round ! 

Messmates,  I ’ve  done.  A spell,  ho,  spell— 
Though  a pressed  man,  I ’ll  still  be  found 
To  do  a seaman’s  duty  well. 

I wish  our  brother  landsmen  knew 
One  half  we  jolly  tars  go  through. 

Anonymous. 


CASABIANCA. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 
Whence  all  but  he  had  fled ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle’s  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o’er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 

A creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on — he  would  not  go 
Without  his  father’s  word ; 

That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

ne  called  aloud — “ Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  ? ” 

He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 
Unconscious  of  his  son. 


390 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


“ Speak,  father ! ” once  again  he  cried, 

“ If  I may  yet  be  gone ! ” 

And  bnt  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 

And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 
In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 

And  shouted  bnt  once  more  aloud, 

“ My  father ! must  I stay  ? ” 

While  o’er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 
The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 

And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a burst  of  thunder  sound — 

The  boy — 0 ! where  was  he  ? 

Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 
With  fragments  strewed  the  sea! — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part — 

But  the  noblest  thing  which  perished  there 
Was  that  young,  faithful  heart! 

Felicia  Hemanb. 


SEAMEN’S  SONG. 

O’ee  the  rolling  waves  we  go, 

Where  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 
To  quell  with  fire  and  sword  the  foe 
That  dares  give  us  vexation. 
Sailing  to  each  foreign  shore, 
Despising  hardships  we  endure, 
Wealth  we  often  do  bring  o’er 
That  does  enrich  the  nation. 

Noble-hearted  seamen  are 
Those  that  do  no  labor  spare, 

Nor  no  danger  shun  or  fear, 

To  do  their  country  pleasure. 

In  loyalty  they  do  abound ; 

Nothing  base  in  them  is  found ; 

But  they  bravely  stand  their  ground 
In  calm  and  stormy  weather. 


In  their  love  and  constancy 
None  above  them  e’er  can  be, 

As  the  maidens  daily  see 

Who  are  by  seamen  courted. 
Nothing  for  them  is  too  good 
That  is  found  in  land  or  flood; 

Nor  with  better  flesh  and  blood 
Has  any  ever  sported. 

Anonymous. 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  POET. 

The  isles  of  Greece,  the  isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace — 
Where  Delos  rose,  and  Phoebus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet ; 

But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 

The  hero’s  harp,  the  lover’s  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 

Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 
To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 
Than  your  sires’  “ Islands  of  the  Blest.” 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 

And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free ; 
For  standing  on  the  Persians’  grave, 

I could  not  deem  myself  a slave. 

A king  sat  on  the  rocky  brow 
Which  looks  o’er  sea-born  Salamis ; 

And  ships,  by  thousands,  lay  below, 

And  men  in  nations — all  were  his ! 

He  counted  them  at  break  of  day — 

And  when  the  sun  set,  where  were  they  ? 

And  where  are  they  ? and  where  art  thou 
My  country  ? On  thy  voiceless  shore 
The  heroic  lay  is  tuneless  now — 

The  heroic  bosom  beats  no  more ! 

And  must  thy  lyre,  so  long  divine, 
Degenerate  into  hands  like  mine  ? 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 


Tis  something,  in  the  dearth  of  fame, 
Though  linked  among  a fettered  race, 
To  feel  at  least  a patriot’s  shame, 

Even  as  I sing,  suffuse  my  face ; 

For  what  is  left  the  poet  here  ? 

For  Greeks  a blush — for  Greece  a tear. 

Must  we  but  weep  o’er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  hut  blush  ? — Our  fathers  bled. 
Earth ! render  hack  from  out  thy  breast 
A remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three, 

To  make  a new  Thermopylae ! 

What ! silent  still  ? and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  no! — the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a distant  torrent’s  fall, 

And  answer,  “ Let  one  living  head, 

But  one,  arise — we  come,  we  come ! ” 

’T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain — in  vain ; strike  other  chords ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Samian  wine  ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio’s  vine ! 

Hark ! rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 

How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 

You  have  the  Pyrrhic  dance  as  yet, 
Where  is  the  Pyrrhic  phalanx  gone  ? 

Of  two  such  lessons,  why  forget 
The  nobler  and  the  manlier  one  ? 

You  have  the  letters  Cadmus  gave — 
Think  ye  he  meant  them  for  a slave  ? 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

We  will  not  think  of  themes  like  these ! 
It  made  Anacreon’s  song  divine ; 

He  served — but  served  Polycrates — 

A tyrant ; but  our  masters  then 
Were  still  at  least  our  countrymen. 

The  tyrant  of  the  Chersonese 

Was  freedom’s  best  and  bravest  friend ; 
That  tyrant  was  Miltiades ! 

Oh  that  the  present  hour  would  lend 
Another  despot  of  the  kind ! 

Such  chains  as  his  were  sure  to  bind. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine  ! 

On  Suli’s  rock,  and  Parga’s  shore, 

Exists  the  remnant  of  a lino 
Such  as  the  Doric  mothers  bore ; 


391 

And  there  perhaps  some  seed  is  sown 
The  Heracleidan  blood  might  own. 

Trust  not  for  freedom  to  the  Franks — 

They  have  a king  who  buys  and  sells ; 

In  native  swords,  and  native  ranks, 

The  only  hope  of  courage  dwells ; 

But  Turkish  force,  and  Latin  fraud, 

Would  break  your  shield,  however  broad. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade — 

I see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 

My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 

To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium’s  marbled  steep, 

Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 

There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die. 

A land  of  slaves  shall  ne’er  be  mine — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

Lord  Byron. 


MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

At  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 

The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece,  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 
Should  tremble  at  his  power. 

In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a conqueror  ; 

In  dreams  his  song  of  triumph  heard ; 

Then  wore  his  monarch’s  signet-ring — 

Then  pressed  that  monarch’s  throne — a king ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden’s  garden  bird. 

At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  ranged  his  Suliote  band — 

True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 

There  had  the  Persian’s  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 
On  old  Plataoa’s  day ; 

And  now  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 


392 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 

With  arms  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far,  as  they. 

An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke : 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 

He  woke — to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 

“To  arms!  they  come!  the  Greek!  the 
Greek!” 

He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  sabre-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 

And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 
Bozzaris  cheer  his  band : 

“Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires ; 

Strike — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires ; 
God — and  your  native  land ! ” 

They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 

His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 

His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won ; 

Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a night’s  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother’s,  when  she  feels, 

For  the  first  time,  her  first-born’s  breath ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 

And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke ; 

Come  in  consumption’s  ghastly  form, 

The  earthquake  shock,  the  ocean-storm ; 
Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm, 
With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine ; 
And  thou  art  terrible — the  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier ; 

And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 
Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 

Thy  voice  sounds  like  a prophet’s  word ; 

And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 
The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 


Come,  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought — 
Come,  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought — 
Come  in  her  crowning  hour — and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye’s  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 
Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men ; 

Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a foreign  land ; 

Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That  told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 
To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 

When  the  land-wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange-groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o’er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris ! with  the  storied  brave 
Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory’s  time, 

Rest  thee — there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

She  wore  no  funeral  weeds  for  thee, 

Nor  bade  the  dark  hearse  wave  its  plume, 
Like  torn  branch  from  death’s  leafless  tree, 
In  sorrow’s  pomp  and  pageantry, 

The  heartless  luxury  of  the  tomb. 

But  she  remembers  thee  as  one 
Long  loved,  and  for  a season  gone ; 

For  thee  her  poet’s  lyre  is  wreathed, 

Her  marble  wrought,  her  music  breathed ; 
For  thee  she  rings  the  birth-day  bells ; 

Of  thee  her  babes’  first  lisping  tells ; 

For  thine  her  evening  prayer  is  said 
At  palace  couch,  and  cottage  bed ; 

Her  soldier,  closing  with  the  foe, 

Gives  for  thy  sake  a deadlier  blow ; 

His  plighted  maiden,  when  she  fears 
For  him,  the  joy  of  her  young  years, 

Thinks  of  thy  fate,  and  checks  her  tears. 

And  she,  the  mother  of  thy  boys, 

Though  in  her  eye  and  faded  cheek 
Is  read  the  grief  she  will  not  speak, 

The  memory  of  her  buried  joys — 

And  even  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 

Will,  by  their  pilgrim-circled  hearth, 

Talk  of  thy  doom  without  a sigh ; 

For  thou  art  Freedom’s  now,  and  Fame’s — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names 
That  were  not  born  to  die. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleok. 


THE  MEN  OF  FORTY-EIGHT. 


393 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-eight  ? 
Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 

When  cowards  mock  the  patriot’s  fate, 
Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 

He ’s  all  a knave,  or  half  a slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 

But  a true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few — 

Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave — 
Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too ; 

All,  all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 
The  fame  of  those  who  died — 

All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 
Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 

And  by  the  stranger’s  heedless  hands 
Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 

But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 
Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam — 

In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit ’s  still  at  home. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth  ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 

And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 
Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 

And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 
Full  many  a race  may  start 

Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 
To  right  their  native  land  ; 

They  kindled  here  a living  blaze 
That  nothing  shall  withstand. 

Alas ! that  Might  can  vanquish  Right — 
They  fell  and  passed  away ; 

But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here ’s  their  memory — may  it  be 
For  us  a guiding  light, 

To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 


Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland’s  still, 
Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate ; 

And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-eight ! 

John  Kells  Inge  am. 


THE  MEN  OF  FORTY-EIGHT. 

They  rose  in  Freedom’s  rare  sunrise, 

Like  giants  roused  from  wine ; 

And  in  their  hearts  and  in  their  eyes 
The  god  leapt  up  divine ! 

Their  souls  flashed  out  like  naked  swords, 
Unsheathed  for  fiery  fate ; 

Strength  went  like  battle  with  their  words — 
The  men  of  Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah ! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Dark  days  have  fallen,  yet  in  the  strife 
They  bate  no  hope  sublime, 

And  bravely  works  the  exultant  life, 

Their  heart’s  pulse  through  the  time ; 

As  grass  is  greenest  trodden  down, 

So  suffering  makes  men  great, 

And  this  dark  tide  shall  richly  crown 
The  work  of  Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Some  in  a bloody  burial  sleep, 

Like  Greeks  to  glory  gone, 

But  in  their  steps  avengers  leap 
With  their  proof-armor  on ; 

And  hearts  beat  high  with  dauntless  trust 
To  triumph  soon  or  late, 

Though  they  be  mouldering  down  in  dust— 
Brave  men  of  Forty-eight ! 

Hurrah ! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

0 when  the  world  wakes  up  to  worst 
The  tyrants  once  again, 

And  Freedom’s  summons-sliout  shall  burst, 
Rare  music ! on  the  brain, — 


394 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


With  heart  to  heart, in  many  a land, 

Ye  ’ll  find  them  all  elate — 

Brave  remnant  of  that  Spartan  hand, 
The  men  of  Forty-eight ; 

Hurrah! 

For  the  men  of  Forty-eight. 

Gerald  Massey. 


AN  ODE. 

What  constitutes  a State  ? 

Not  high  raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate ; 

Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets 
crowned ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports, 

Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies 
ride ; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 

Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to 
pride. 

No  : — Men,  high-minded  men, 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 
In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 

As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude — 
Men  who  their  duties  know, 

But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare 
maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 

And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the 
chain : 

These  constitute  a State ; 

And  sovereign  Law,  that  State’s  collected  will, 
O’er  thrones  and  globes  elate, 

Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 

The  fiend,  Dissension,  like  a vapor  sinks ; 

And  e’en  the  all-dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  this  Heaven-loved  isle, 

Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore ! 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile  ? 

Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 

Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave 
’T  is  folly  to  decline, 

And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Sir  William  Jones. 


SONNETS. 

LONDON,  1802. 

Milton!  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  • 
England  hath  need  of  thee.  She  is  a fen 
Of  stagnant  waters.  Altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men ; 
O,  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again, 

And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power! 
Thy  soul  was  like  a star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 
Thou  hadst  a voice  whose  sound  was  like  the 
sea; 

Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free, 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life’s  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness ; and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 

TO  TOTJSSAINT  l’oUVERTURE. 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon’s  earless  den — 
O miserable  chieftain ! where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience  ? Yet  die  not ; do 
thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a cheerful  brow. 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live,  and  take  comfort.  Thou  hast  left  be- 
hind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee — air,  earth, 
and  skies. 

There ’s  not  a breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee.  Thou  hast  great  allies ; 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 

And  love,  and  man’s  unconquerable  mind. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  A VERY  ILLUSTRIOUS  NOBLEMAN. 

Sweet  as  the  silver  voice  of  victory, 
Enlarging  the  fair  glory  of  a king, 

Or  that  lamenting  bird,  in  Summer  free, 
That  to  the  shepherd’s  thirsty  ear  doth  sing; 
As  sweet  as  to  divining  fancy  ring 

The  golden  axles  of  the  circling  sphere, 

So  sweetly  in  thy  praise,  on  angel’s  wing, 


ON  A SERMON  AGAINST  GLORY. 


395 


I mean  to  soar  beyond  the  solar  year ; 

And  there,  escaped  from  anguish  and  from  fear, 
To  triumph  in  the  sparkling  fount  of  day, 
Thy  harbinger,  that  brightly  shall  appear 
In  that  celestial  walk ; as  fair  as  they 
Whom  Earth,  of  her  heroic  race,  hath  sent, 
To  be  her  glory,  and  her  argument ! 

Lord  Thurlow. 


ON  A BUST  OF  DANTE. 

See,  from  this  counterfeit  of  him 
Whom  Arno  shall  remember  long, 

How  stern  of  lineament,  how  grim, 

The  father  was  of  Tuscan  song ! 

There  but  the  burning  sense  of  wrong, 
Perpetual  care,  and  scorn,  abide — 

Small  friendship  for  the  lordly  throng, 
Distrust  of  all  the  world  beside. 

Faithful  if  this  wan  image  be, 

No  dream  his  life  was — but  a fight ; 

Could  any  Beatrice  see 
A lover  in  that  anchorite  ? 

To  that  cold  Ghibeline’s  gloomy  sight 
Who  could  have  guessed  the  visions  came 
Of  Beauty,  veiled  with  heavenly  light, 

In  circles  of  eternal  flame  ? 

The  lips  as  Cumae’s  cavern  close, 

The  cheeks  with  fast  and  sorrow  thin, 

The  rigid  front,  almost  morose, 

But  for  the  patient  hope  within, 

Declare  a life  whose  course  hath  been 
Unsullied  still,  though  still  severe, 

Which,  through  the  wavering  days  of  sin 
Kept  itself  icy-chaste  and  clear. 

Not  wholly  such  his  haggard  look 
When  wandering  once,  forlorn,  he  strayed, 
With  no  companion  save  his  book, 

To  Corvo’s  hushed  monastic  shade ; 
Where,  as  the  Benedictine  laid 
nis  palm  upon  the  pilgrim  guest, 

The  single  boon  for  which  ho  prayed 
The  convent’s  charity  was  rest. 

Peace  dwells  not  here — this  rugged  face 
Betrays  no  spirit  of  repose ; 

The  sullen  warrior  sole  we  trace, 

The  marble  man  of  many  woes. 


Such  was  his  mien  when  first  arose 
The  thought  of  that  strange  tale  divine — 
When  hell  he  peopled  with  his  foes, 

The  scourge  of  many  a guilty  line. 

War  to  the  last  he  waged  with  all 
The  tyrant  canker-worms  of  earth ; 

Baron  and  duke,  in  hold  and  hall, 

Cursed  the  dark  hour  that  gave  him  birth ; 
He  used  Rome’s  harlot  for  his  mirth ; 
Plucked  bare  hypocrisy  and  crime ; 

But  valiant  souls  of  knightly  worth 
Transmitted  to  the  rolls  of  Time. 

O,  Time ! whose  verdicts  mock  our  own, 
The  only  righteous  judge  art  thou ; 

That  poor,  old  exile,  sad  and  lone, 

Is  Latium’s  other  Virgil  now. 

Before  his  name  the  nations  bow ; 

His  words  are  parcel  of  mankind, 

Deep  in  whose  hearts,  as  on  his  brow, 

The  marks  have  sunk  of  Dante’s  mind. 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 


ON  A SERMON  AGAINST  GLORY. 

Come  then,  tell  me,  sage  divine, 

Is  it  an  offence  to  own 
That  our  bosoms  e’er  incline 
Toward  immortal  Glory’s  throne  ? 

For  with  me  nor  pomp,  nor  pleasure, 
Bourbon’s  might,  Braganza’s  treasure, 

So  can  fancy’s  dream  rejoice, 

So  conciliate  reason’s  choice, 

As  one  approving  word  of  her  impartial  voice. 

If  to  spurn  at  noble  praise 
Be  the  passport  to  thy  heaven, 

Follow  thou  those  gloomy  ways— 

No  such  law  to  me  was  given ; 

Nor,  I trust,  shall  I deplore  me, 

Faring  like  my  friends  before  me ; 

Nor  an  holier  place  desire 
Than  Timoleon’s  arms  acquire, 

And  Tully’s  curule  chair,  and  Milton’s  golden 
lyre. 

Mark  Akenside. 


396 


POEMS  OF  AMBITION. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 

As  through  an  Alpine  village  passed 
A youth,  who  bore,  ’mid  snow  and  ice, 

A banner  with  the  strange  device — 
Excelsior ! 

His  brow  was  sad ; his  eye  beneath 
Flashed  like  a faulchion  from  its  sheath; 
And  like  a silver  clarion  rung 
The  accents  of  that  unknown  tongue— 
Excelsior ! 

In  happy  homes  he  saw  the  light 
Of  household  fires  gleam  warm  and  bright : 
Above,  the  spectral  glaciers  shone, 

And  from  his  lips  escaped  a groan — 
Excelsior! 

“ Try  not  the  pass ! ” the  old  man  said : 
“Dark  lowers  the  tempest  overhead; 

The  roaring  torrent  is  deep  and  wide  ! ” 
And  loud  that  clarion  voice  replied 
Excelsior ! 

“O  stay,”  the  maiden  said,  “and  rest 
Thy  weary  head  upon  this  breast ! ” 


A tear  stood  in  his  bright  blue  eye, 

But  still  he  answered,  with  a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

“Beware  the  pine-tree’s  withered  branch! 
Beware  the  awful  avalanche ! ” 

This  was  the  peasant’s  last  good-night  * 

A voice  replied,  far  up  the  height, 
Excelsior ! 

At  break  of  day,  as  heavenward 
The  pious  monks  of  Saint  Bernard 
Uttered  the  oft-repeated  prayer, 

A voice  cried,  through  the  startled  air, 
Excelsior! 

A traveller,  by  the  faithful  hound, 
Half-buried  in  the  snow  was  found, 

Still  grasping  in  his  hand  of  ice 
That  banner  with  the  strange  device, 
Excelsior ! 

There  in  the  twilight  cold  and  gray, 
Lifeless,  but  beautiful,  he  lay, 

And  from  the  sky,  serene  and  far, 

A voice  fell,  like  a falling  star — 

Excelsior ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


PART  VI. 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


0 ! never  wear  a brow  of  care,  or  frown  with  rueful  gravity, 

For  Wit ’s  the  child  of  Wisdom,  and  Good  Humor  is  the  twin ; 

No  need  to  play  the  Pharisee,  or  groan  at  man’s  depravity, 

Let  one  man  be  a good  man,  and  let  all  be  fair  within. 

Speak  sober  truths  with  smiling  lips ; the  bitter  wrap  in  sweetness — 
Sound  sense  in  seeming  nonsense,  as  the  grain  is  hid  in  chaff ; 

And  fear  not  that  the  lesson  e’er  may  seem  to  lack  completeness — 

A man  may  say  a wise  thing,  though  he  say  it  with  a laugh. 

“ A soft  word  oft  turns  wrath  aside,”  (so  says  the  Great  Instructor,') 

A smile  disarms  resentment,  and  a jest  drives  gloom  away ; 

A cheerful  laugh  to  anger  is  a magical  conductor, 

The  deadly  flash  averting,  quickly  changing  night  to  day. 

Then,  is  not  he  the  wisest  man  who  rids  his  brow  of  wrinkles, 

Who  bears  his  load  with  merry  heart,  and  lightens  it  by  half— 
Whose  pleasant  tones  ring  in  the  ear,  as  mirthful  music  tinkles, 

And  whose  words  are  true  and  telling,  though  they  echo  in  a laugh  1 

So  temper  life’s  wox-k — weariness  with  timely  relaxation  ; 

Most  witless  wight  of  all  is  he  who  never  plays  the  fool; 

The  heart  grows  gray  before  the  head,  when  sunk  in  sad  prostration ; 

Its  Winter  knows  no  Christmas,  with  its  glowing  log  of  Yule. 

Why  weep,  faint-hearted  and  forlorn,  when  evil  comes  to  try  us  ? 

The  fount  of  hope  wells  ever  nigh — ’t  will  cheer  us  if  we  quaff ; 

And,  when  the  gloomy  phantom  of  Despondency  stands  by  us, 

Let  us,  in  calm  defiance,  exorcise  it  with  a laugh ! 

Anonymous. 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


THE  HEIR  OF  LINNE. 

PART  FIRST. 

Lithe  and  listen,  gentlemen ; 

To  sing  a song  I will  begin : 

It  is  of  a lord  of  fair  Scotland, 

Which  was  the  unthrifty  heir  of  Linne. 

His  father  was  a right  good  lord, 

His  mother  a lady  of  high  degree ; 

But  they,  alas ! were  dead  him  fro, 

And  he  loved  keeping  company. 

To  spend  the  day  with  merry  cheer, 

To  drink  and  revel  every  night, 

To  card  and  dice  from  even  to  morn, 

It  was,  I ween,  his  heart’s  delight. 

To  ride,  to  run,  to  rant,  to  roar, 

To  always  spend  and  never  spare, 

I wot,  an  he  were  the  king  himself, 

Of  gold  and  fee  he  might  be  bare. 

So  fares  the  unthrifty  heir  of  Linne, 

Till  all  his  gold  is  gone  and  spent ; 

And  he  maun  sell  his  lands  so  broad, 

His  house,  and  lands,  and  all  his  rent. 

His  father  had  a keen  steward, 

And  John  o’  Scales  was  called  he ; 

But  John  is  become  a gentleman, 

And  John  has  got  both  gold  and  fee. 

Says,  “Welcome,  welcome,  Lord  of  Linne; 
Let  nought  disturb  thy  heavy  cheer ; 

If  thou  wilt  sell  thy  lands  so  broad, 

Good  store  of  gold  I ’ll  give  thee  here.” 


“ My  gold  is  gone,  my  money  is  spent, 

My  land  now  take  it  unto  thee : 

Give  me  the  gold,  good  John  o’  Scales, 

And  thine  for  aye  my  land  shall  be.” 

Then  John  he  did  him  to  record  draw, 

And  John  he  gave  him  a god’s-penny ; 

But  for  every  pound  that  John  agreed, 

The  land,  I wis,  was  well  worth  three. 

He  told  him  the  gold  upon  the  board ; 

He  was  right  glad  the  land  to  win  : 

“ The  land  is  mine,  the  gold  is  thine, 

And  now  I ’ll  be  the  Lord  of  Linne.” 

Thus  he  hath  sold  his  land  so  broad ; 

Both  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen, 

All  but  a poor  and  lonesome  lodge, 

That  stood  far  off  in  a lonely  glen. 

For  so  he  to  his  father  hight : 

“ My  son,  when  I am  gone,”  said  he, 

“ Then  thou  wilt  spend  thy  land  so  broad, 
And  thou  wilt  spend  thy  gold  so  free ; 

“ But  swear  me  now  upon  the  rood, 

That  lonesome  lodge  thou  ’It  never  spend : 
For  when  all  the  world  doth  frown  on  thee, 
Thou  there  shalt  find  a faithful  friend-” 

The  heir  of  Linne  is  full  of  gold  ; 

And,  “ Come  with  me,  my  friends,”  said  he ; 
“ Let ’s  drink,  and  rant,  and  merry  make, 
And  he  that  spares,  ne’er  mote  he  thee.” 


400 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


They  ranted,  drank,  and  merry  made, 

Till  all  his  gold  it  waxed  thin ; 

And  then  his  friends  they  slunk  away ; 

They  left  the  unthrifty  heir  of  Linne. 

He  had  never  a penny  left  in  his  purse, 
Never  a penny  left  hut  three ; 

The  one  was  brass,  the  other  was  lead, 

And  t’  other  it  was  white  money. 

“Now  well-a-way ! ” said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
u Now  well-a-way,  and  woe  is  me ! 

For  when  I was  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

I never  wanted  gold  nor  fee. 

“ But  many  a trusty  friend  have  I, 

And  why  should  I feel  dole  or  care  ? 

I ’ll  borrow  of  them  all  by  turns, 

So  need  I not  he  ever  hare.” 

But  one,  I wis,  was  not  at  home ; 

Another  had  paid  his  gold  away ; 

Another  called  him  thriftless  loon, 

And  sharply  bade  him  wend  his  way 

“ Now  well-a-way ! ” said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
“ Now  well-a-way,  and  woe  is  me ! 

For  when  I had  my  land  so  broad, 

On  me  they  lived  right  merrily. 

“ To  beg  my  bread  from  door  to  door, 

I wis,  it  were  a burning  shame  : 

To  rob  and  steal  it  were  a sin : 

To  work  my  limbs  I cannot  frame. 

“Now  I’ll  away  to  the  lonesome  lodge, 

For  there  my  father  bade  me  wend : 

When  all  the  world  should  frown  on  me, 

I there  should  find  a trusty  friend.’* 

PART  SECOND. 

Away  then  hied  the  heir  of  Linne, 

O’er  hill  and  holt,  and  moor  and  fen, 

Until  he  came  to  the  lonesome  lodge, 

That  stood  so  low  in  a lonely  glen. 

He  looked  up,  he  look6d  down, 

In  hope  some  comfort  for  to  win ; 

But  hare  and  lothely  were  the  walls : 

“Here’s  sorry  cheer!  ” quoth  the  heir  of 
Linne. 


The  little  window,  dim  and  dark, 

Was  hung  with  ivy,  brier,  and  yew ; 

No  shimmering  sun  here  ever  shone  ; 

No  halesome  breeze  here  ever  blew. 

No  chair,  no  table,  he  mote  spy, 

No  cheerful  hearth,  no  welcome  bed, 

Nought  save  a rope  with  a running  noose, 
That  dangling  hung  up  o’er  his  head. 

And  over  it,  in  broad  letters, 

These  words  were  written,  so  plain  to  see : 

“ Ah ! graceless  wretch,  hath  spent  thy  all, 
And  brought  thyself  to  penury  ? 

“ All  this  my  boding  mind  misgave, 

I therefore  left  this  trusty  friend : 

Now  let  it  shield  thy  foul  disgrace, 

And  all  thy  shame  and  sorrows  end.” 

Sorely  vexed  with  this  rebuke, 

Sorely  vexed  was  the  heir  of  Linne ; 

His  heart,  I wis,  was  near  to  hurst, 

With  guilt  and  sorrow,  shame  and  sin. 

Never  a word  spake  the  heir  of  Linne, 

Never  a word  he  spake  hut  three : 

“ This  is  a trusty  friend  indeed, 

And  is  right  welcome  unto  me.” 

Then  round  his  neck  the  cord  he  drew, 

And  sprung  aloft  with  his  body ; 

When  lo  ! the  ceiling  hurst  in  twain, 

And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling  he. 

Astonished  lay  the  heir  of  Linne, 

Nor  knew  if  he  were  live  or  dead ; 

At  length  he  looked  and  saw  a hill, 

And  in  it  a key  of  gold  so  red. 

He  took  the  hill  and  looked  it  on ; 

Straight  good  comfort  found  he  there : 

It  told  him  of  a hole  in  the  wall 
In  which  there  stood  three  chests  in-fere. 

Two  were  full  of  the  beaten  gold ; 

The  third  was  full  of  white  money ; 

And  over  them,  in  broad  letters, 

These  words  were  written  so  plain  to  see : 


THE  HEIR  OF  LINNE. 


401 


“ Once  more,  my  son,  I set  tliee  clear ; 

Amend  thy  life  and  follies  past ; 

For,  but  thon  amend  thee  of  thy  life, 

That  rope  must  be  thy  end  at  last.” 

“And  let  it  be,”  said  the  heir  of  Linne ; 

“ And  let  be,  but  if  I amend : 

For  here  I will  make  mine  avow, 

This  reade  shall  guide  me  to  the  end.” 

Away  then  went  the  heir  of  Linne, 

Away  he  went  with  merry  cheer ; 

I wis  he  neither  stint  nor  stayed, 

Till  John  o’  the  Scales’  house  he  came  near. 

And  when  he  came  to  John  o’  the  Scales, 

Up  at  the  spere  then  looked  he ; 

There  sat  three  lords  at  the  board’s  end, 
Were  drinking  of  the  wine  so  free. 

Then  up  bespoke  the  heir  of  Linne ; 

To  John  o’  the  Scales  then  could  he : 

“ I pray  thee  now,  good  John  o’  the  Scales, 
One  forty  pence  for  to  lend  me.” 

“Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loon! 

Away,  away ! this  may  not  be : 

For  a curse  be  on  my  head,”  he  said, 

“If  ever  I lend  thee  one  penny!  ” 

Then  bespoke  the  heir  of  Linne, 

To  John  o’  the  Scales’  wife  then  spake  he : 
“ Madam,  some  alms  on  me  bestow, 

I pray,  for  sweet  Saint  Charity.” 

“ Away,  away,  thou  thriftless  loon ! 

I swear  thou  gettest  no  alms  of  me ; 

For  if  we  should  hang  any  losel  here, 

The  first  we  would  begin  with  thee.” 

Then  up  bespoke  a good  fellow 
Which  sat  at  John  o’  the  Scales  his  board  : 
Said,  “ Turn  again,  thou  heir  of  Linne ; 

Some  time  thou  wast  a well  good  lord : 

“ Some  time  a good  fellow  thou  hast  been, 
And  sparedst  not  thy  gold  and  fee ; 
Therefore  I ’ll  lend  thee  forty  pence, 

And  other  forty  if  need  be. 

26 


“ And  ever  I pray  thee,  John  o’  the  Scales, 
To  let  him  sit  in  thy  company : 

For  well  I wot  thou  hadst  his  land, 

And  a good  bargain  it  was  to  thee.” 

Then  up  bespoke  him  John  o’  the  Scales, 

All  woode  he  answered  him  again : 

“Now  a curse  be  on  my  head,”  he  said, 

“But  I did  lose  by  that  bargain. 

“ And  here  I proffer  thee,  heir  of  Linne, 
Before  these  lords  so  fair  and  free, 

Thou  shalt  have ’t  back  again  better  cheap, 
By  a hundred  merks,  than  I had  it  of  thee.” 

“I  draw  you  to  record,  lords,”  he  said; 

With  that  he  gave  him  a god’s-penny : 

“Now,  by  my  fay,”  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
“And  here,  good  John,  is  thy  money.” 

And  he  pulled  forth  the  bags  of  gold, 

And  laid  them  down  upon  the  board : 

All  wo-begone  was  John  o’  the  Scales, 

So  vexed  he  could  say  never  a word. 

He  told  him  forth  the  good  red  gold, 

He  told  it  forth  with  mickle  din  ; 

“ The  gold  is  thine,  the  land  is  mine, 

And  now  I ’m  again  the  Lord  of  Linne ! ” 

Says,  “ Have  thou  here,  thou  good  fellow ; 
Forty  pence  thou  didst  lend  me ; 

Now  I ’m  again  the  Lord  of  Linne, 

And  forty  pounds  I will  give  thee.” 

“ Now  well-a-way ! ” quoth  Joan  o’  the  Scales ; 
“ Now  well-a-way,  and  wo  is  my  life ! 

Yesterday  I was  Lady  of  Linne, 

Now  I ’m  but  John  o’  the  Scales  his  wife.” 

“ Now  fare-thee-well,”  said  the  heir  of  Linne, 
“Farewell,  good  John  o’  the  Scales,”  said 
he: 

“ When  next  I want  to  sell  my  land, 

Good  John  o’  the  Scales,  I’ll  come  to 
thee.” 

Anonymous. 


402 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


GOOD  ALE. 

I cannot  eat  but  little  meat — 

My  stomach  is  not  good ; 

But  sure,  I think  that  I can  drink 
With  him  that  wears  a hood. 

Tho’  I go  bare,  take  ye  no  care ; 

I am  nothing  a-cold — 

I stuff  my  skin  so  fall  within 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  hare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  ; 

But , belly , God  send  thee  good  ale  enough , 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

I love  no  roast  but  a nut-brown  toast, 
And  a crab  laid  in  the  fire  ; 

A little  bread  shall  do  me  stead — 

Much  bread  I not  desire. 

No  frost  nor  snow,  nor  wind,  I trow, 
Can  hurt  me  if  I wold — 

I am  so  wrapt,  and  thorowly  lapt 
Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare , go  bare; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold ; 

But , belly , God  send  thee  good  ale  enough , 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 
Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek, 

Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  you  may  see 
The  tears  run  down  her  cheek ; 

Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 
Even  as  a malt-worm  should ; 

And  saith,  “ Sweetheart,  I took  my  part 
Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old.” 

Back  and  side  go  bare , go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  ; 

But.  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough , 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and 
wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do ; 

They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 
Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to ; 

And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured 
bowls, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 


God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their 
wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old. 

Back  and  side  go  bare , go  bare; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  ; 

But , belly , God  send  thee  good  ale  enough , 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old. 

John  Still. 


TAKE  THY  OLD  CLOAKE  ABOUT 
THEE. 

This  winter  weather — it  waxeth  cold, 

And  frost  doth  freese  on  every  hill ; 

And  Boreas  blows  his  blastes  so  cold 
That  all  our  cattell  are  like  to  spill. 

Bell,  my  wife,  who  loves  no  strife, 

Shee  sayd  unto  me  quietlye, 

Rise  up,  and  save  cowe  Crumbocke’s  life — 
Man,  put  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

HE. 

0 Bell,  why  dost  thou  flyte  and  scorne  ? 
Thou  kenst  my  cloake  is  very  thin ; 

It  is  so  bare  and  overworne 
A cricke  he  thereon  can  not  renn. 

Then  He  no  longer  borrowe  nor  lend — 

For  once  He  new  apparelled  be; 
To-morrow  He  to  towne,  and  spend, 

For  lie  have  a new  cloake  about  me. 

SHE. 

Cow  Crumbocke  is  a very  good  cow — 

She  has  been  alwayes  true  to  the  payle ; 
She  has  helpt  us  to  butter  and  cheese,  I 
trow, 

And  other  things  she  will  not  fayle ; 

1 wold  be  loth  to  see  her  pine ; 

Good  husbande,  council  take  of  me — 

It  is  not  for  us  to  go  so  fine  : 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

HE. 

My  cloake,  it  was  a very  good  cloake — 

It  hath  been  alwayes  true  to  the  weare ; 
But  now  it  is  not  worth  a groat ; 

I have  had  it  four-and-forty  yeare. 


THE  OLD  AND  YOUNG  COURTIER. 


Sometime  it  was  of  cloth  in  graine ; 

’Tis  now  but  a sigh  clout  as  you  may  see ; 
It  will  neither  hold  nor  winde  nor  raine — 
And  He  have  a new  cloake  about  me. 

SHE. 

It  is  four-and-forty  yeeres  ago 

Since  the  one  of  us  the  other  did  ken ; 

And  we  have  had  betwixt  us  to  we 
Of  children  either  nine  or  ten  ; 

We  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and 
men — 

In  the  fere  of  God  I trowe  they  be ; 

And  why  wilt  thou  thyself  misken — 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

HE. 

O Bell,  my  wife,  why  dost  thou  floute  ? 

Mow  is  now,  and  then  was  then; 

Seeke  now  all  the  world  throughout, 

Thou  kenst  not  clownes  from  gentlemen  ; 
They  are  clad  in  blacke,  greene,  yellowe,  or 
gray, 

So  far  above  their  own  degree — 

Once  in  my  life  lie  do  as  they, 

For  He  have  a new  cloake  about  me. 

SHE. 

King  Stephen  was  a worthy  peere — 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a crowne  ; 
lie  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deere, 
Therefore  he  called  the  tailor  loon. 

He  was  a wight  of  high  renowne, 

And  thou’se  but  of  a low  degree — 

It ’s  pride  that  puts  this  countrye  downe  : 
Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

IIE. 

Bell,  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 

Yet  she  will  lead  me  if  she  can ; 

And  oft  to  live  a quiet  life 
I ’m  forced  to  yield  though  I be  good-man. 
It ’s  not  for  a man  with  a woman  to  threepe, 
Unless  he  first  give  o’er  the  plea ; 

As  we  began  sae  will  we  leave, 

And  He  take  my  old  cloake  about  me. 

ANONYMOC8. 


403 


THE  OLD  AND  YOUNG  COURTIER. 

An  old  song  made  by  an  aged  old  pate, 

Of  an  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a 
great  estate, 

That  kept  a brave  old  house  at  a bountiful 
rate, 

And  an  old  porter  to  relieve  the  poor  at  his 
gate; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's , 
And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

With  an  old  lady,  whose  anger  one  word  as- 
suages ; 

They  every  quarter  paid  their  old  servants 
their  wages, 

And  never  knew  what  belonged  to  coachmen, 
footmen,  nor  pages, 

But  kept  twenty  old  fellows  with  blue  coats 
and  badges ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's , 
And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

With  an  old  study  filled  full  of  learned  old 
books ; 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain — you  might 
know  him  by  his  looks ; 

With  an  old  buttery  hatch  worn  quite  off  the 
hooks ; 

And  an  old  kitchen,  that  maintained  half  a 
dozen  old  cooks ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's, 
And  the  queer? s old  courtier. 

With  an  old  hall,  hung  about  with  pikes,  guns, 
and  bows, 

With  old  swords  and  bucklers,  that  had  borne 
many  shrewd  blows ; 

And  an  old  frieze  coat,  to  cover  his  worship’s 
trunk  hose, 

And  a cup  of  old  sherry,  to  comfort  his  cop- 
per nose ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's , 
And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

With  a good  old  fashion,  when  Christmas 
was  come, 

To  call  in  all  his  old  neighbors  with  bagpipe 
and  drum; 


404 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


With  good  cheer  enough  to  furnish  every  old 
room, 

And  old  liquor  able  to  make  a cat  speak,  and 
man  dumb ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's, 

And  the  queers  old  courtier. 

With  an  old  falconer,  huntsman,  and  a kennel 
of  hounds, 

That  never  hawked,  nor  hunted,  but  in  his 
own  grounds ; 

Who,  like  a wise  man,  kept  himself  within 
his  own  bounds, 

And  when  he  dyed,  gave  every  child  a thou- 
sand good  pounds ; 

Like  an  old  courtier  of  the  queen's , 
And  the  queen's  old  courtier. 

But  to  his  eldest  son  his  house  and  land  he 
assigned, 

Charging  him  in  his  will  to  keep  the  old 
bountiful  mind — 

To  be  good  to  his  old  tenants,  and  to  his 
neighbours  be  kind : 

But  in  the  ensuing  ditty  you  shall  hear  how 
he  was  inclined, 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's , 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

Like  a flourishing  young  gallant,  newly  come 
to  his  land, 

Who  keeps  a brace  of  painted  madams  at  his 
command ; 

And  takes  up  a thousand  pound  upon  his  fa- 
ther’s land ; 

And  gets  drunk  in  a tavern,  till  he  can  nei- 
ther go  nor  stand ; 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's, 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

With  a new-fangled  lady,  that  is  dainty,  nice, 
and  spare, 

Who  never  knew  what  belonged  to  good 
housekeeping  or  care ; 

Who  buys  gaudy-colored  fans  to  play  with 
wanton  air, 

And  seven  or  eight  different  dressings  of  other 
women’s  hair ; 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's , 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 


With  a new  fashioned  hall,  built  where  the 
old  one  stood, 

Hung  round  with  new  pictures,  that  do  the 
poor  no  good ; 

With  a fine  marble  chimney,  wherein  burns 
neither  coal  nor  wood ; 

And  a new  smooth  shovelboard,  whereon  no 
victuals  ne’er  stood ; 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's, 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

With  a new  study,  stuft  full  of  pamphlets  and 
plays; 

And  a new  chaplain,  that  swears  faster  than 
he  prays ; 

With  a new  buttery  hatch,  that  opens  once 
in  four  or  five  days, 

And  a new  French  cook,  to  devise  fine  kick- 
shaws, and  toys ; 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's, 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

With  a new  fashion,  when  Christmas  is 
drawing  on — 

On  a new  journey  to  London  straight  we  all 
must  be  gone, 

And  leave  none  to  keep  house,  but  our  new 
porter  John, 

Who  relieves  the  poor  with  a thump  on  the 
back  with  a stone ; • 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's, 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

With  a new  gentleman-usher,  whose  carriage 
is  complete ; 

With  a new  coachman,  footmen,  and  pages  to 
carry  up  the  meat ; 

With  a waiting-gentlewoman,  whose  dressing 
is  very  neat — 

Who,  when  her  lady  has  dined,  lets  the  ser- 
vants not  eat ; 

Like  a young  courtier  of  the  king's, 
And  the  king's  young  courtier. 

With  new  titles  of  honour  bought  with  his 
father’s  old  gold, 

For  which  sundry  of  his  ancestors’  old  manors 
are  sold : 


THE  HAG. 


405 


I 

I 


And  this  is  the  coarse  most  of  our  new  gal- 
lants hold, 

Which  makes  that  good  house-keeping  is  now 
grown  so  cold 

Among  the  young  courtiers  of  the  king , 
Or  the  king's  young  courtiers. 

Anonym  oirs. 


MALBROUCK. 

Malbrouck,  the  prince  of  commanders, 

Is  gone  to  the  war  in  Flanders ; 

His  fame  is  like  Alexander’s ; 

But  when  will  he  come  home  ? 

Perhaps  at  Trinity  Feast;  or 
Perhaps  he  may  come  at  Easter. 

Egad ! he  had  better  make  haste,  or 
We  fear  he  may  never  come. 

For  Trinity  Feast  is  over, 

And  has  brought  no  news  from  Dover ; 

And  Easter  is  past,  moreover, 

And  Malbrouck  still  delays. 

Milady  in  her  watch-tower 
Spends  many  a pensive  hour, 

Not  knowing  why  or  how  her 
Dear  lord  from  England  stays. 

While  sitting  quite  forlorn  in 
That  tower,  she  spies  returning 
A page  clad  in  deep  mourning, 

With  fainting  steps  and  slow. 

“ 0 page,  prythee,  come  faster ! 

What  news  do  you  bring  of  your  master  ? 

I fear  there  is  some  disaster — 

Your  looks  are  so  full  of  woe.” 

“ The  news  I bring,  fair  lady,” 

With  sorrowful  accent  said  he, 

“ Is  one  you  are  not  ready 
So  soon,  alas ! to  hear. 

“But  since  to  speak  I’m  hurried,” 

Added  this  page  quite  flurried, 

“ Malbrouck  is  dead  and  buried ! ” 

— And  here  he  shed  a tear. 

“ He’s  dead!  he’s  dead  as  a herring! 

For  I beheld  his  herring, 

And  four  officers  transferring 

His  corpse  away  from  the  field.  I 


“ One  officer  carried  his  sabre ; 

And  he  carried  it  not  without  labor, 
Much  envying  his  next  neighbor, 

Who  only  bore  a shield. 

“The  third  was  helmet-bearer — 

That  helmet  which  on  its  wearer 
Filled  all  who  saw  with  terror, 

And  covered  a hero’s  brains. 

“ Now,  having  got  so  far,  I 
Find,  that — by  the  Lord  Harry! — 

The  fourth  is  left  nothing  to  carry ; — 

So  there  the  thing  remains.” 

Anonymous  (French). 
Translation  of  Father  Trout. 


THE  HAG. 

The  hag  is  astride, 

This  night  for  to  ride — 

The  devil  and  she  together ; 

Through  thick  and  through  thin, 

Now  out  and  then  in, 

Though  ne’er  so  foul  be  the  weather. 

A thorn  or  a burr 
She  takes  for  a spur ; 

With  a lash  of  a bramble  she  rides  now 
Through  brakes  and  through  briers, 
O’er  ditches  and  mires, 

She  follows  the  spirit  that  guides  now. 

No  beast,  for  his  food, 

Dares  now  range  the  wood, 

But  husht  in  his  lair  he  lies  lurking; 
While  mischiefs,  by  these, 

On  land  and  on  seas, 

At  noon  of  night  are  a- working. 

The  storm  will  arise, 

And  trouble  the  skies, 

This  night ; and,  more  the  wonder, 

The  ghost  from  the  tomb 
Affrighted  shall  come, 

Called  out  by  the  clap  of  the  thunder. 

Robert  Herrick. 


406 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 

AN  HEBOI-COMICAL  POEM. 

Nolueram,  Belinda,  tuos  violare  capillos; 

Sed  juvat  hoc  precibus  me  tribuisse  tuis.— Maet. 

CANTO  I. 

What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes 
springs, 

What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I sing — This  verse  to  Caryl,  muse ! is  due ; 
This,  e’en  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view : 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 

If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say  what  strange  motive,  goddess!  could 
compel 

A well-bred  lord  t’  assault  a gentle  belle  ? 

O,  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a gentle  belle  reject  a lord  ? 

In  tasks  so  bold  can  little  men  engage, 

And  in  soft  bosoms  dwell  such  mighty  rage  ? 
Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a timorous 
ray, 

And  ope’d  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the 
day. 

Now  lap-dogs  give  themselves  the  rousing 
shake, 

And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve  awake; 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knocked  the 
ground, 

And  the  pressed  watch  returned  a silver 
sound. 

Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  prest — 

Her  guardian  sylph  prolonged  the  balmy  rest ; 
’T  was  he  had  summoned  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning-dream  that  hovered  o’er  her 
head : 

A youth  more  glittering  than  a birthnight 
beau, 

(That  e’en  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  to 
glow,) 

Seemed  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 
And  thus  in  whispers  said,  or  seemed  to  say  : 
“ Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguished  care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air ! 

If  e’er  one  vision  touched  thy  infant  thought 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have 
taught, 

Of  airy  elves  by  moonlight-shadows  seen, 
The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green ; 


Or  virgins  visited  by  angel  powers 
With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heavenly 
flowers — 

Hear  and  believe ! thy  own  importance 
know, 

Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  below. 
Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  con- 
cealed, 

To  maids  alone  and  children  are  revealed; 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may 
give? 

The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe. 
Know,  then,  unnumbered  spirits  round  thee 
fly— 

The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky; 

These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing, 
Hang  o’er  the  box,  and  hover  round  the  ring. 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air, 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a chair. 
As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old, 
And  once  enclosed  in  woman’s  beauteous 
mould ; 

Thence,  by  a soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air. 

Think  not,  when  woman’s  transient  breath  is 
fled, 

That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead ; 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards, 

And,  though  she  plays  no  more,  o’erlooks  the 
cards. 

Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive, 

And  love  of  ombre,  after  death  survive ; 

For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire, 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire ; 

The  sprites  of  fiery  termagant  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a salamander’s  name ; 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away, 

And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea; 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a 
gnome 

In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam ; 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair, 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 
“Know  further  yet;  whoever  fair  and 
chaste 

Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  embraced : 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  ease 
Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shapes  they 
please. 

What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids, 

In  courtly  balls  and  midnight  masquerades, 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 


40? 


Safe  from  the  treacherous  friend,  the  daring 
spark, 

The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark — 
When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm  de- 
sires, 

When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing  fires  ? 
’T  is  hut  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials  know, 
Though  honor  is  the  word  with  men  below. 

“ Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of 
their  face, 

For  life  predestined  to  the  gnome’s  embrace ; 
These  swell  their  prospects  and  exalt  their 
pride, 

When  offers  are  disdained,  and  love  denied ; 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweep- 
ing train, 

And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear, 

And  in  soft  sounds,  ‘Your  Grace,’  salutes 
their  ear. 

’T  is  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul, 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll ; 
Teach  infant  cheeks  a bidden  blush  to  know, 
And  little  hearts  to  flutter  at  a beau. 

“Oft  when  the  world  imagine  women 
stray, 

The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide  their 
way; 

Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue, 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 

What  tender  maid  but  must  a victim  fall 
To  one  man’s  treat,  but  for  another’s  ball  ? 
When  Florio  speaks,  what  virgin  could  with- 
stand, 

If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand  ? 
With  varying  vanities  from  every  part 
They  shift  the  moving  toy-shop  of  their  heart ; 
Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots 
sword-knots  strive, 

Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches 
drive. 

This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call — 

O,  blind  to  truth  1 the  sylphs  contrive  it  all. 

“ Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection  claim ; 
A watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air, 

In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star, 

I saw,  alas ! some  dread  event  impend, 

Ere  to  the  main  this  morning’s  sun  descend ; 
But  Heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or 
where : 


Warned  by  the  sylph,  O pious  maid,  beware ! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can ; 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man ! ” 

He  said;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she 
slept  too  long, 

Leaped  up,  and  waked  his  mistress  with  his 
tongue. 

’T  was  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true, 

Thy  eyes  first  opened  on  a billet-doux ; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardors,  were  no  sooner 
read, 

But  all  the  vision  vanished  from  thy  head. 
And  now,  unveiled,  the  toilet  stands  dis- 
played, 

Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 

First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent 
adores, 

With  head  uncovered,  the  cosmetic  powers. 

A heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears — 

To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears; 
Th’  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar’s  side, 
Trembling  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumbered  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  offerings  of  the  world  appear ; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil, 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering 
spoil. 

This  casket  India’s  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here,  and  elephant  unite, 
Transformed  to  combs — the  speckled,  and  the 
white. 

Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows ; 
Puffs,  powders,  patches,  bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms ; 

The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms, 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace, 

And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face ; 
Sees  by  degrees  a purer  blush  arise, 

And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 
The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care, 
These  set  the  head,  and  these  divide  the  hair; 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the 
gown; 

And  Betty ’s  praised  for  labors  not  her  own. 

CANTO  II. 

Hot  with  more  glories,  in  th’  ethereal  plain, 
The  sun  first  rises  o’er  the  purpled  main, 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
! Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 


408 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


Fair  nymphs  and  well-dressed  youths  around 
her  shone, 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a sparkling  cross  she 
wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore; 
Her  lively  looks  a sprightly  mind  disclose — 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those ; 
Favors  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 

Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 

Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike ; 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 

Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of 
pride, 

Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to 
hide: 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 

Look  on  her  face,  and  you  ’ll  forget  them  all. 
This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  man- 
kind, 

Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung 
behind 

In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth,  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender 
chains. 

With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray  ; 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey  ; 
Fair  tresses  man’s  imperial  race  insnare, 

And  beauty  draws  us  with  a single  hair. 

Th’  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks 
admired ; 

He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 

By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray ; 

For  when  success  a lover’s  toil  attends, 

Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 
For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  im- 
plored 

Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power  adored ; 
But  chiefly  Love — to  Love  an  altar  built, 

Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves ; 

With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise 
the  fire. 

Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent 
eyes 

Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. 


i 


The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his 
prayer ; 

The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  skv, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die : 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently 
play, 

Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All  but  the  sylph — with  careful  thoughts  op- 
prest, 

Th’  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air  ; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair ; 

I Soft  o’er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers  breathe, 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  be- 
neath. 

; Some  to  the  sun  their  insect-wings  unfold, 

: Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold, 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light ; 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew — 
Thin,  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 
Dipt  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies, 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes ; 

I While  every  beam  new  transient  colors 
flings, 

‘Colors  that  change  whene’er  they  wave 
their  wings. 

Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 

! Superior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed ; 

| His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 

He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun : 
“Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief 
give  ear ! 

i Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 
Ye  know  the  spheres  and  various  tasks  as- 
signed 

By  laws  eternal  to  th’  aerial  kind : 
j Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  ether  play, 

And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day ; 

| Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on 
high, 

Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless 
sky; 

; Some,  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon’s  pale 
light 

Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 

Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 


409 


Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main, 
Or  o’er  the  glebe  distill  the  kindly  rain ; 
Others,  on  earth,  o’er  human  race  preside, 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions 
guide : 

Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own, 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British 
throne. 

“ Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair, 
Not  a less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care ; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a gale, 
Nor  let  th’  imprisoned  essences  exhale ; 

To  draw  fresh  colors  from  the  vernal  flow- 
ers; 

To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in 
showers, 

A brighter  wash  ; to  curl  their  waving  hairs, 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs ; 
Nay  oft,  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 


Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o’ertake  his 
sins, 

Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins ; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 

Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a bodkin’s  eye ; 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain, 
While  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in 
vain; 

Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a rivaled  flower ; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill ; 

In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow, 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below ! ” 
He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  de- 
scend ; 

Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend ; 
Some  thread  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair  ; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear ; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait, 
Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 

CANTO  III. 

Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crowned  with 
flowers, 

Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising 
towers, 

There  stands  a structure  of  majestic  frame, 
Which  from  the  neighboring  Hampton  takes 
its  name. 

Here  Britain’s  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home ; 
Here,  thou,  great  Anna ! whom  three  realms 
obey, 

Host  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes 
tea. 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a court; 

In  various  talk  th’  instructive  hours  they  past : 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last ; 

One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  queen  ; 
And  one  describes  a charming  Indian  screen; 
A third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes — 
At  every  word  a reputation  dies ; 

Snuff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day, 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray ; 

The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine; 


To  change  a flounce,  or  add  a furbelow. 

“ This  day  black  omens  threat  the  bright- 
est fair 

That  e’er  deserved  a watchful  spirit’s  care  ; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force  or  slight ; 

But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped 
in  night — 

Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana’s  law, 
Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a flaw ; 

Or  stain  her  honor,  or  her  new  brocade ; 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a masquerade; 

Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a ball ; 

Or  whether  heaven  has  doomed  that  Shock 
must  fall — 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits ! to  your  charge  re- 
pair: 

The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta’s  care ; 

The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign ; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine ; 

Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favorite  lock ; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

“ To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note, 

We  trust  th’  important  charge,  the  petti- 
coat— 

Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence  to 
fail, 

Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  armed  with  ribs 
of  whale — 

Form  a strong  line  about  the  silver  bound, 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 

“Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge, 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large, 


410 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


The  merchant  from  th’  Exchange  returns  in 
peace, 

And  the  long  labors  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites, 
Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous  knights 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom, 

And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to 
come. 

Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to 
join, 

Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine. 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th’  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card : 
First  Ariel  perched  upon  a matadore, 

Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they  bore ; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race, 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold ; four  kings  in  majesty  revered, 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a forky  beard ; 

And  four  fair  queens,  whose  hands  sustain  a 
flower, 

Th’  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power ; 
Four  knaves,  in  garbs  succinct,  a trusty  band, 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their 
hand; 

And  parti-colored  troops,  a shining  train, 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 
The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with 
care ; 

“ Let  spades  be  trumps ! ” she  said,  and 
trumps  they  were. 

Now  move  to  war  her  sable  matadores, 

In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord ! 

Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the 
board. 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield, 

And  marched  a victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a chief  in  years, 
The  hoary  majesty  of  spades  appears, 

Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed, 
The  rest  his  many-colored  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  en- 
gage, 

Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 

E’en  mighty  Pam,  that  kings  and  queens  o’er- 
threw, 

And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of 
loo, 


Sad  chance  of  war ! now  destitute  of  aid, 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  Spade ! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield ; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 

His  warlike  amazon  her  host  invades, 

Th’  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades. 
The  club’s  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien  and  barbarou 
pride : 

What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 

His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread — 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the  globe  ? 

The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace  ; 
Th’  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half  his 
face, 

And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  powers  com- 
bined, 

Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder 
seen, 

With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level 
green. 

Thus  when  dispersed  a routed  army  runs, 

Of  Asia’s  troops,  and  Afric’s  sable  sons — 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 

Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye ; 

The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall 
In  heaps  on  heaps — one  fate  o’erwh  elms  them 
all. 

The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
And  wins  (oh,  shameful  chance  !)  the  queen 
of  hearts. 

At  this  the  blood  the  virgin’s  cheek  forsook, 
A livid  paleness  spreads  o’er  all  her  look ; 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th’  approaching  ill, 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 

And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate : 
An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth ; the  king  unseen 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  captive 
queen ; 

He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph,  exulting,  fills  with  shouts  the 
sky; 

The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply. 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals ! ever  blind  to  fate, 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate ! 
Sudden  these  honors  shall  be  snatched  away, 
And  cursed  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 


j 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 


411 


For  lo  ! the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is 
crowned ; 

The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round ; 
On  shining  altars  of  japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze; 

From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide, 
While  China’s  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide. 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band  : 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned ; 
Some  o’er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  dis- 
played, 

Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Coffee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise, 

And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut 
eyes) 

Sent  up  in  vapors  to  the  baron’s  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 

Ah  cease,  rash  youth ! desist  ere ’t  is  too  late; 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla’s  fate ! 
Changed  to  a bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 

She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus’  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their 
will, 

How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 

Just  then,  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case : 
So  ladies,  in  romance,  assist  their  knight — 
Present  the  spear  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers’  ends ; 

This  just  behind  Belinda’s  neck  he  spread, 

As  o’er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her 
head. 

Swift  to  the  lock  a thousand  sprites  repair, 

A thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the 
hair ; 

And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her 
ear; 

Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe 
drew  near. 

Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin’s  thought : 

A.8  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
lie  watched  th’  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 

An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  ex- 
pired, 

Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a sigh  retired. 


The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  forfex 
wide, 

T’  enclose  the  lock ; now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
E’en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 

A wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed ; 

Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in 
twain, 

(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again ;) 

The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever ! 

Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from  her 
eyes, 

And  screams  of  horror  rend  the  affrighted 
skies. 

Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are 
cast 

When  husbands,  or  when  lapdogs,  breathe 
their  last ; 

Or  when  rich  china  vessels,  fallen  from  high, 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie ! 

“Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples 
twine,” 

The  victor  cried  “ the  glorious  prize  is  mine ! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air ; 
Or  in  a coach  and  six  the  British  fair ; 

As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read, 

Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a lady’s  bed ; 

While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  wax-lights  in  bright  order 
blaze ; 

While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations 
give, 

So  long  my  honor,  name,  and  praise  shall 
live! 

What  Time  \fould  spare,  from  steel  receives 
its  date ; 

And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate ! 
Steel  could  the  labor  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  th’  imperial  towers  of 
Troy; 

Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  con- 
found, 

And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph!  thy  hairs 
should  feel 

The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel  ? ” 

CANTO  IV. 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  opprest, 
And  secret  passions  labored  in  her  breast. 


412 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive; 

Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive ; 
Not  ardent  lovers  robbed  of  all  their  bliss ; 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a kiss ; 

Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die; 

Not  Cynthia  when  her  mantua’s  pinned 
awry, 

E’er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair, 
As  thou,  sad  virgin ! for  thy  ravished  hair. 
For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs 
withdrew, 

And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a dusky,  melancholy  sprite, 

As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light,  . 
Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene, 
Repaired  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen. 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome, 
And  in  a vapor  reached  the  dismal  dome. 

No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows; 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows. 
Here  in  a grotto  sheltered  close  from  air, 

And  screened  in  shades  from  day’s  detested 
glare, 

She  sighs  for  ever  on  her  pensive  bed, 

Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her  head. 
Two  handmaids  wait  the  throne;  alike  in 
place, 

But  differing  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 

Here  stood  Ill-nature,  like  an  ancient  maid, 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  ar- 
rayed ; 

With  store  of  prayers  for  mornings,  nights, 
and  noons, 

Her  hand  is  filled ; her  bosom  with  lampoons. 
There  Affectation  with  a sickly  mien, 

Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen ; 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside, 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride ; 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe, 
Wrapt  in  a gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show — 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these, 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a new  dis- 
ease. 

A constant  vapor  o’er  the  palace  flies ; 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise — 
Dreadful,  as  hermits’  dreams  in  haunted 
shades, 

Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 

Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling 
spires, 

Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires; 


Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes, 

And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 
Unnumbered  throngs  on  every  side  are 
seen, 

Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by  Spleen. 
Here  living  teapots  stand,  one  arm  held  out, 
One  bent — the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout; 
A pipkin  there,  like  Homer’s  tripod  walks ; 
Here  sighs  ajar,  and  there  a goose-pie  talks; 
Men  prove  with  child,  as  powerful  fancy 
works ; 

And  maids,  turned  bottles,  call  aloud  for 
corks. 

Safe  passed  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic 
band, 

A branch  of  healing  spleenwort  in  his  hand. 
Then  thus  addressed  the  power — “ Hail,  way- 
ward queen ! 

Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen ; 

Parent  of  vapors  and  of  female  wit, 

Who  give  the  hysteric  or  poetic  fit, 

On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways, 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays ; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 
And  send  the  godly  in  a pet  to  pray. 

A nymph  there  is  that  all  your  power  dis- 
dains, 

And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  maintains. 
But  O ! if  e’er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a grace, 
Or  raise  a pimple  on  a beauteous  face, 

Like  citron- wraters  matrons’  cheeks  inflame, 
Or  change  complexions  at  a losing  game — 

If  e’er  with  airy  horns  I planted  heads, 

Or  rumpled  petticoats,  or  tumbled  beds, 

Or  caused  suspicion  when  no  soul  was  rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  headdress  of  a prude, 

Or  e’er  to  costive  lapdog  gave  disease, 

Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes  could 
ease — 

Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin ; 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the 
spleen.” 

The  goddess,  with  a discontented  air, 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his 
prayer. 

A wondrous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she 
binds, 

Like  that  when  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds; 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs, 
Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of 
tongues. 


THE  RAPE  0 


A vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears, 

Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away, 
Spreads  his  hlack  wings,  and  slowly  mounts 
to  day. 

Sunk  in  Thalestris’  arms  the  nymph  he 
found, 

Her  eye  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound. 

Full  o’er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he 
rent, 

And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 

Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire, 
And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 

“ O wretched  maid ! ” she  spread  her  hands 
and  cried, 

(While  Hampton’s  echoes,  “ Wretched  maid,” 
replied,) 

“Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence  to  prepare  ? 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound? 
For  this  with  torturing  irons  wreathed 
around  ? 

For  this  with  fillets  strained  your  tender 
head? 

And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead  ? 
Gods ! shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair, 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare? 
Honor  forbid ! at  whose  unrivalled  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say ; 
Already  see  you  a degraded  toast, 

And  all  your  honor  in  a whisper  lost ! 

How  shall  I,  then,  your  hapless  fame  defend  ? 
’T  will  then  he  infamy  to  seem  your  friend ! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th’  inestimable  prize, 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And  heightened  by  the  diamond’s  circling 
rays, 

On  that  rapacious  hand  for  ever  blaze  ? 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  park  circus  grow, 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow ; 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall, 

Men,  monkeys,  lapdogs,  parrots,  perish  all ! ” 
She  said;  then,  raging,  to  Sir  Plume  re- 
pairs, 

And  bids  her  Beau  demand  the  precious  hairs. 
Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a clouded  cane, 

Witli  earnest  eyes,  and  round,  unthinking  face, 
He  first  the  snuff-box  opened,  then  the  case, 


F THE  LOCK.  413 

And  thus  broke  out — “ My  lord,  why,  what 
the  devil ! 

Z — ds ! damn  the  lock ! ’fore  Gad,  you  must 
be  civil ! 

Plague  on’t!  ’t  is  past  a jest — nay,  prithee, 
pox! 

Give  her  the  hair.” — He  spoke,  and  rapped 
his  box. 

“It  grieves  me  much  (replied  the  peer 
again) 

Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in 
vain ; 

But  by  this  lock,  this  sacred  lock,  I swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair ; 
Which  never  more  its  honors  shall  renew, 
Clipped  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it 
grew,) 

That,  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air, 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  for  ever  wear.” 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph 
spread 

The  long-contended  honors  of  her  head. 

But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome,  forbears  not 
so; 

He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows  flow. 
Then  see ! the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  ap- 
pears, 

Her  eyes  half-languishing,  half  drowned  in 
tears ; 

On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping 
head, 

Which  with  a sigh  she  raised,  and  thus  she 
said: 

“For  ever  cursed  be  this  detested  day, 
Which  snatched  my  best,  my  favorite  curl 
away; 

Happy ! ah  ten  times  happy  had  I been, 

If  Hampton  Court  these  eyes  had  never  seen ! 
Yet  am  not  I the  first  mistaken  maid, 

By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betrayed. 

0 had  I rather  unadmired  remained 
In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land ; 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way, 
Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e’er  taste 
bohea ! 

There  kept  my  charms  concealed  from  mortal 
eye, 

Like  roses,  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to 
roam? 

0 had  I stayed,  and  said  my  prayers  at  home! 


414 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


’T  was  this  the  morning  omens  seemed  to  tell, 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patchbox 
fell; 

The  tottering  china  shook  without  a wind, 
Nay,  Poll  sat  mute,  and  Shock  was  most  un- 
kind! 

A sylph,  too,  warned  me  of  the  threats  of 
fate, 

In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late! 

See  the  poor  remnant  of  these  slighted  hairs ! 
My  hands  shall  rend  what  e’en  thy  rapine 
spares : 

These  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break, 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck ; 
The  sister-lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone, 

And  in  its  fellow’s  fate  foresees  its  own ; 
Uncurled  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands, 
And  tempts  once  more  thy  sacrilegious  hands. 
O hadst  thou,  cruel ! been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these ! ” 

canto  v. 

She  said : the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears ; 
But  Fate  and  Jove  had  stopped  the  baron’s 
ears. 

In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails, 

For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails? 
Not  half  so  fixed  the  Trojan  could  remain, 
While  Anna  begged  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 
Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  fan ; 
Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began : 

“ Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  hon- 
ored most, 

The  wise  man’s  passion,  and  the  vain  man’s 
toast  ? 

Why  decked  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford? 
Why  angels  called,  and  angel-like  adored? 
Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white- 
gloved  beaux  ? 

Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost  rows? 
How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our  pains, 
Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty  gains ; 
That  men  may  say,  when  we  the  front-box 
grace, 

Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face ! 

0 ! if  to  dance  all  night,  and  dress  all  day, 
Charmed  the  small-pox,  or  chased  old  age 
away, 

Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife’s  cares 
produce, 

Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  of  use? 


To  patch,  nay  ogle,  might  become  a saint ; 

Nor  could  it,  sure,  be  such  a sin  to  paint. 

But  since,  alas ! frail  beauty  must  decay ; 

Curled  or  uncurled,  since  locks  will  turn  to 
gray; 

Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fade, 

And  she  who  scorns  a man  must  die  a maid; 

What  then  remains,  but  well  our  power  to 
use, 

And  keep  good  humor  still,  whate’er  we  lose? 

And  trust  me,  dear,  good  humor  can  prevail, 

When  airs,  and  flights,  and  screams,  and 
scolding  fail. 

Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll — 

Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the 
soul.” 

So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  ensued ; 

Belinda  frowned,  Thalestris  called  her  prude. 

“ To  arms,  to  arms ! ” the  fierce  virago  cries, 

And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 

All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th’  attack ; 

Fans  clap,  silks  rustle,  and  tough  whalebones 
crack ; 

Heroes’  and  heroines’  shouts  confusedly  rise, 

And  bass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 

No  common  weapons  in  their  hands  are 
found — 

Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a mortal 
wound. 

So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  en- 
gage, 

And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions 
rage; 

’Gainst  Pallas  Mars;  Latona  Hermes  arms ; 

And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms ; 

Jove’s  thunder  roars,  heaven  trembles  all 
around, 

Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  re- 
sound; 

Earth  shakes  her  nodding  towers,  the  ground 
gives  way, 

And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day! 

Triumphant  Umbriel,  on  a sconce’s  height, 

Clapped  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the 
fight; 

Propped  on  their  bodkin-spears,  the  sprites 
survey 

The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris 
flies, 

And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK. 


A beau  and  witling  perished  in  the  throng — 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song : 

“ O cruel  Dymph ! a living  death  I hear,” 
Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upward  cast, 

“ Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing  ” — was  his 
last. 

Thus  on  Mseander’s  flowery  margin  lies 
Th’  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 
When  hold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa 
down, 

Chloe  stepped  in,  and  killed  him  with  a frown ; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 

But  at  her  smile  the  beau  revived  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
Weighs  the  men’s  wits  against  the  lady’s  hair; 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to 
side; 

At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  sub- 
side. 

See,  fierce  Belinda  on  the  baron  flies, 

With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes; 
Nor  feared  the  chief  th’  unequal  fight  to  try, 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength  en- 
dued, 

She  with  one  finger  and  a thumb  subdued : 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw ; 

The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 

The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 

Sudden,  with  starting  tears  each  eye  o’erflows, 
And  the  high  dome  reechoes  to  his  nose. 

“ Now  meet  thy  fate ! ” incensed  Belinda 
cried, 

And  drew  a deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck, 

Her  great-great-grandsire  wore  about  his  neck, 
In  three  seal-rings ; which  after,  melted 
down, 

Formed  a vast  buckle  for  his  widow’s  gown; 
Her  infant  grandame’s  whistle  next  it  grew — 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew ; 
Then  in  a bodkin  graced  her  mother’s  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda 
wears.) 

“Boast  not  my  fall  (he  cried),  insulting 
foe  l 

Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low ; 

Mor  think  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind ; 

All  that  I dread  is  leaving  you  behind ! 


415 

Rather  than  so,  ah  let  me  still  survive, 

And  burn  in  Cupid’s  flames — but  burn  alive.” 

“Restore  the  lock!”  she  cries;  and  all 
around 

“Restore  the  lock!”  the  vaulted  roofs  re- 
bound. 

Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a strain 
Roared  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his 
pain. 

But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  crossed, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost ! 
The  lock,  obtained  with  guilt,  and  kept  with 
pain, 

In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain ; 
With  such  a prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest, 

So  heaven  decrees!  with  heaven  who  can 
contest  ? 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar 
sphere, 

Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured 
there ; 

There  heroes’  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous 
vases, 

And  beaux’  in  snuff-boxes  and  tweezer-cases; 
There  broken  vows,  and  deathbed  alms  are 
found, 

And  lovers’  hearts  with  ends  of  ribbon  bound, 
The  courtier’s  promises,  and  sick  men’s 
prayers, 

The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs, 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a flea, 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse — she  saw  it  upward  rise, 
Though  marked  by  none  but  quick  poetic 
eyes: 

(So  Rome’s  great  founder  to  the  heavens 
withdrew, 

To  Proculus  alone  confessed  in  view ;) 

A sudden  star,  it  shot  through  liquid  air, 

And  drew  behind  a radiant  trail  of  hair. 

Not  Berenice’s  locks  first  rose  so  bright, 

The  heavens  bespangling  with  dishevelled 
light. 

The  sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies, 

And,  pleased,  pursue  its  progress  through  the 
skies. 

This  the  beau  monde  shall  from  the  Mall 
survey, 

And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray ; 

This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 

And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda’s  lake; 


416 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


This  Partridge  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless 
skies 

When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo’s  eyes ; 

And  hence  th’  egregious  wizard  shall  fore- 
doom 

The  fate  of  Louis,  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then  cease,  bright  nymph ! to  mourn  thy 
ravished  hair, 

Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere! 

Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast, 

Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  lock  you  lost. 

For  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye, 

When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die ; 

When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they 
must, 

And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust — 

This  lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame, 

And  ’midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda’s  name. 

Alexander  Pope. 


THE  DIVERTING  HISTORY  OF  JOHN 
GILPIN, 

SHOWING  HOW  HE  WENT  FAETHEE  THAN  HE 

INTENDED,  AND  CAME  SAFE  HOME  AGAIN. 

John  Gilpin  was  a citizen 
Of  credit  and  renown ; 

A trainband  captain  eke  was  he, 

Of  famous  London  town. 

John  Gilpin’s  spouse  said  to  her  dear — 

“ Though  wedded  we  have  been 

These  twice  ten  tedious  years,  yet  we 
No  holiday  have  seen. 

“ To-morrow  is  our  wedding  day, 

And  we  will  then  repair 

Unto  the  Bell  at  Edmonton 
All  in  a chaise  and  pair. 

“ My  sister,  and  my  sister’s  child, 

Myself,  and  children  three, 

Will  fill  the  chaise ; so  you  must  ride 
On  horseback  after  we.” 

He  soon  replied,  “ I do  admire 
Of  womankind  but  one, 

And  you  are  she,  my  dearest  dear ; 
Therefore  it  shall  be  done. 


“ I am  a linendraper  bold, 

As  all  the  world  doth  know ; 

And  my  good  friend,  the  calender, 

Will  lend  his  horse  to  go.” 

Quoth  Mrs.  Gilpin,  “ That’s  well  said; 

And,  for  that  wine  is  dear, 

We  will  be  furnished  with  our  own, 

Which  is  both  bright  and  clear.” 

John  Gilpin  kissed  his  loving  wife ; 

O’erjoyed  was  he  to  find 
That,  though  on  pleasure  she  was  bent, 

She  had  a frugal  mind. 

The  morning  came,  the  chaise' was  brought; 

But  yet  was  not  allowed 
To  drive  up  to  the  door,  lest  all 
Should  say  that  she  was  proud. 

So  three  doors  off  the  chaise  was  stayed 
Where  they  did  all  get  in — 

Six  precious  souls,  and  all  agog 
To  dash  through  thick  and  thin. 

Smack  went  the  whip,  round  went  the 
wheels — 

Were  never  folks  so  glad ; 

The  stones  did  rattle  underneath, 

As  if  Cheapside  were  mad. 

John  Gilpin  at  his  horse’s  side 
Seized  fast  the  flowing  mane, 

And  up  he  got,  in  haste  to  ride — 

But  soon  came  down  again : 

For  saddletree  scarce  reached  had  he, 

His  journey  to  begin, 

When,  turning  round  his  head,  he  saw 
Three  customers  come  in. 

So  down  he  came : for  loss  of  time, 
Although  it  grieved  him  sore, 

Yet  loss  of  pence,  full  well  he  knew, 

Would  trouble  him  much  more. 

’T  was  long  before  the  customers 
Were  suited  to  their  mind; 

When  Betty,  screaming,  came  down  stairs — 
“ The  wine  is  left  behind ! ” 


THE  HISTORY  OF  JOHN  GILPIN.  417 

“ Good  lack ! ” quoth  he — “ yet  bring  it  me, 
My  leathern  belt  likewise, 

In  which  I bear  my  trusty  sword 
When  I do  exercise.” 

Then  might  all  people  well  discern 
The  bottles  he  had  slung — 

A bottle  swinging  at  each  side, 

As  hath  been  said  or  sung. 

Now  Mistress  Gilpin  (careful  soul !) 

Had  two  stone  bottles  found, 

To  hold  the  liquor  that  she  loved, 
And  keep  it  safe  and  sound. 

The  dogs  did  bark,  the  children  screamed, 
Up  flew  the  windows  all ; 

And  every  soul  cried  out,  “ Well  done  ! ” 
As  loud  as  he  could  bawl. 

Each  bottle  had  a curling  ear, 
Through  which  the  belt  he  drew, 
And  hung  a bottle  on  each  side, 

To  make  his  balance  true. 

Away  went  Gilpin — who  but  he  ? 

His  fame  soon  spread  around — 
“He  carries  weight ! he  rides  a race ! 
’ Tis  for  a thousand  pound!” 

Then  over  all,  that  he  might  be 
Equipped  from  top  to  toe, 

His  long  red  cloak,  well  brushed  and  neat, 
He  manfully  did  throw. 

And  still  as  fast  as  he  drew  near, 
’ Twas  wonderful  to  view 
How  in  a trice  the  turnpike  men 
Their  gates  wide  open  threw. 

Now  see  him  mounted  once  again 
Upon  his  nimble  steed, 

Full  slowly  pacing  o’er  the  stones, 
With  caution  and  good  heed. 

And  now,  as  he  went  bowing  down 
His  reeking  head  full  low, 

The  bottles  twain  behind  his  back 
Were  shattered  at  a blow. 

But  finding  soon  a smoother  road 
Beneath  his  well  shod  feet, 

The  snorting  beast  began  to  trot, 
Which  galled  him  in  his  seat. 

Down  ran  the  wine  into  the  road, 

Most  piteous  to  be  seen, 

Which  made  his  horse’s  flanks  to  smoke 
As  they  had  basted  been. 

So,  “Fair  and  softly,”  John  he  cried, 
But  John  he  cried  in  vain ; 

That  trot  became  a gallop  soon, 

In  spite  of  curb  and  rein. 

But  still  he  seemed  to  carry  weight, 
With  leathern  girdle  braced ; 

For  all  might  see  the  bottle  necks 
Still  dangling  at  his  waist. 

So  stooping  down,  as  needs  he  must 
Who  cannot  sit  upright, 

He  grasped  the  mane  with  both  his  hands, 
And  eke  with  all  his  might. 

Thus  all  through  merry  Islington 
These  gambols  did  he  play, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  Wash 
Of  Edmonton  so  gay ; 

His  horse,  who  never  in  that  sort 
Had  handled  been  before, 

What  thing  upon  his  back  had  got 
Did  wonder  more  and  more. 

And  there  he  threw  the  wash  about 
On  both  sides  of  the  way, 

Just  like  unto  a trundling  mop, 

Or  a wild  goose  at  play. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  neck  or  nought ; 

Away  went  hat  and  wig ; 

He  little  dreamt,  when  he  set  out, 

Of  running  such  a rig. 

At  Edmonton  his  loving  wife 
From  the  balcony  spied 
Her  tender  husband,  wondering  much 
To  see  how  he  did  ride. 

The  wind  did  blow — the  cloak  did  fly, 
Like  streamer  long  and  gay ; 

Till,  loop  and  button  failing  both, 

At  last  it  flew  away. 

27 

“ Stop,  stop,  John  Gilpin ! here ’s  the  house, 
They  all  at  once  did  cry ; 

“ The  dinner  waits,  and  we  are  tired : ” 
Said  Gilpin — “ So  am  I ! ” 

418  POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 

But  yet  his  horse  was  not  a whit 
Inclined  to  tarry  there ; 

For  why  ? — his  owner  had  a house 
Full  ten  miles  off,  at  Ware. 

Said  John,  “ It  is  my  wedding  day, 
And  all  the  world  would  stare 
If  wife  should  dine  at  Edmonton, 
And  I should  dine  at  Ware.” 

So  like  an  arrow  swift  he  flew, 
Shot  by  an  archer  strong ; 

So  did  he  fly — which  brings  me  to 
The  middle  of  my  song. 

So  turning  to  his  horse,  he  said 
“ I am  in  haste  to  dine ; 

’ Twas  for  your  pleasure  you  came  here — 
You  shall  go  back  for  mine.” 

Away  went  Gilpin  out  of  breath, 
And  sore  against  his  will, 

Till  at  his  friend  the  calender’s 
His  horse  at  last  stood  still. 

Ah,  luckless  speech,  and  bootless  boast, 
For  which  he  paid  full  dear ! 

For,  while  he  spake,  a braying  ass 
Did  sing  most  loud  and  clear; 

The  calender,  amazed  to  see 
His  neighbor  in  such  trim, 

Laid  down  his  pipe,  flew  to  the  gate, 
And  thus  accosted  him : 

Whereat  his  horse  did  snort,  as  he 
Had  heard  a lion  roar, 

And  galloped  off  with  all  his  might, 
As  he  had  done  before. 

“ What  news  ? what  news?  your  tidings  tell ; 

Tell  me  you  must  and  shall — 

Say  why  bareheaded  you  are  come, 

Or  why  you  come  at  all  ? ” 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  Gilpin’s  hat  and  wig : 

He  lost  them  sooner  than  at  first, 
For  why  ? — they  were  too  big. 

How  Gilpin  had  a pleasant  wit, 
And  loved  a timely  joke ; 
And  thus  unto  the  calender 
In  merry  guise  he  spoke : 

How  Mistress  Gilpin,  when  she  saw 
Her  husband  posting  down 
Into  the  country  far  away, 

She  pulled  out  half  a crown ; 

“ I came  because  your  horse  would  come ; 

And,  if  I well  forebode, 

My  hat  and  wig  will  soon  be  here, 

They  are  upon  the  road.” 

And  thus  unto  the  youth  she  said, 

That  drove  them  to  the  Bell, 

“ This  shall  be  yours  when  you  bring  back 
My  husband  safe  and  well.” 

The  calender,  right  glad  to  find 
His  friend  in  merry  pin, 
Returned  him  not  a single  word, 
But  to  the  house  went  in ; 

The  youth  did  ride,  and  soon  did  meet 
John  coming  back  amain — 

Whom  in  a trice  he  tried  to  stop, 

By  catching  at  his  rein ; 

Whence  straight  he  came  with  hat  and  wig : 
A wig  that  flowed  behind, 

A hat  not  much  the  worse  for  wear — 
Each  comely  in  its  kind. 

But  not  performing  what  he  meant, 
And  gladly  would  have  done, 

The  frighted  steed  he  frighted  more, 
And  made  him  faster  run. 

He  held  them  up,  and  in  his  turn 
Thus  showed  his  ready  wit — 

“ My  head  is  twice  as  big  as  yours, 
They  therefore  needs  must  fit. 

Away  went  Gilpin,  and  away 
Went  post-boy  at  his  heels, 

The  post-boy’s  horse  right  glad  to  miss 
The  lumbering  of  the  wheels. 

“ But  let  me  scrape  the  dirt  away 
That  hangs  upon  your  face ; 

And  stop  and  eat,  for  well  you  may 
Be  in  a hungry  case.” 

Six  gentlemen  upon  the  road, 

Thus  seeing  Gilpin  fly, 

With  post-boy  scampering  in  the  rear, 
They  raised  the  hue  and  ciy : 

MASSACRE  OF  THE  M ACPHERSON.  419 


“Stop  thief ! stop  thief! — a highwayman ! 

Not  one  of  them  was  mute ; 

And  all  and  each  that  passed  that  way 
Did  join  in  the  pursuit. 

And  now  the  turnpike  gates  again 
Flew  open  in  short  space ; 

The  toll-men  thinking  as  before, 

That  Gilpin  rode  a race. 

And  so  he  did,  and  won  it  too, 

For  he  got  first  to  town ; 

Nor  stopped  till  where  he  had  got  up 
He  did  again  get  down. 

Now  let  us  sing,  long  live  the  king ! 

And  Gilpin,  long  live  he ; 

And  when  he  next  doth  ride  abroad, 

May  I be  there  to  see ! 

William  Cowper. 


MASSACRE  OF  THE  M A CPHERSON. 

Fdaieshon  swore  a feud 
Against  the  clan  M’Tavish — 

Marched  into  their  land 
To  murder  and  to  rafish ; 

For  he  did  resolve 

To  extirpate  the  vipers, 

With  four-and-twenty  men, 

And  five-and-thirty  pipers. 

n. 

But  when  he  had  gone 
Half-way  down  Strath  Canaan, 

Of  his  fighting  tail 
Just  three  were  remainin’. 

They  were  all  he  had 
To  back  him  in  ta  battle ; 

All  the  rest  had  gone 
Off  to  drive  ta  cattle. 

hi. 

“Fery  coot!  ” cried  Fhairshon — 

“ So  my  clan  disgraced  is ; 

Lads,  we  ’ll  need  to  fight 
Pefore  we  touch  ta  peasties. 

Here ’s  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
Coming  wi’  his  fassals — 

Gillies  seventy-three, 

And  sixty  Dhuine wassails!  ” 


IV. 

“ Coot  tay  to  you,  sir ! 

Are  not  you  ta  Fhairshon  ? 

Was  you  coming  here 
To  visit  any  person  ? 

You  are  a plackguard,  sir ! 

It  is  now  six  hundred 
Coot  long  years,  and  more, 

Since  my  glen  was  plundered.” 

v. 

“ Fat  is  tat  you  say  ? 

Dar  you  cock  your  peaver  ? 

I will  teach  you,  sir, 

Fat  is  coot  pehaviour ! 

You  shall  not  exist 
For  another  day  more ; 

I will  shot  you,  sir, 

Or  stap  you  with  my  claymore ! ” 

VI. 

“I  am  fery  glad 
To  learn  what  you  mention, 

Since  I can  prevent 
Any  such  intention.” 

So  Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 
Gave  some  warlike  howls, 

Trew  his  skhian-dhu, 

An’  stuck  it  in  his  powels. 

VII. 

In  this  fery  way 

Tied  ta  faliant  Fhairshon, 

Who  was  always  thought 
A superior  person. 

Fhairshon  had  a son, 

Who  married  Noah’s  daughter, 
And  nearly  spoiled  ta  Flood 
By  trinking  up  ta  water — 

VIII. 

Which  he  would  have  done, 

I at  least  believe  it, 

Had  ta  mixture  peen 
Only  half  Glenlivet. 

This  is  all  my  tale : 

Sirs,  I hope ’t  is  new  t’ye! 

Here’s  your  fery  good  healths, 

And  tamn  ta  whusky  tuty ! 

William  Edmondstounk  Aytoi/n. 


420 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


TAM  O’  SHANTER. 

A TALE. 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogilis  full  is  this  Buke. 

Gawin  Douglass. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

And  drouthy  neehors  neehors  meet, 

As  market-days  are  wearing  late, 

An’  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 

While  we  sit  housing  at  the  nappy, 

An’  getting  fou  and  unco  happy, 

We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  styles, 

That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame, 

Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  o’  Shanter, 

As  he,  frae  Ayr,  ae  night  did  canter, 

(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne’er  a town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  honnie  lasses). 

O Tam ! hadst  thou  hut  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate’s  advice ! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a skellum, 

A bleth’ring,  blust’ring,  drunken  blellum ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  na  sober ; 

That  ilka  melder,  wi’  the  miller, 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller  ; 

That  every  naig  was  ca’d  a shoe  on, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on  ; 

That  at  the  L — d’s  house,  ev’n  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesy’d  that,  late  or  soon, 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown’d  in  Doon ; 
Or  catch’d  wi’  warlocks  in  the  mirk, 

By  Alloway’s  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames ! it  gars  me  greet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 

How  monie  lengthened  sage  advices, 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale  : Ae  market  night 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 

Wi’  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely : 
And  at  his  elbow  souter  Johnny, 

His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony — 

Tam  lo’ed  him  like  a vera  brither — 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 


The  night  drave  on  wi’  sangs  and  clatter ; 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better. 

The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 

Wi’  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious ; 

The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories ; 

The  landlord’s  laugh  was  ready  chorus ; 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a man  sae  happy, 

E’en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy ; 

As  bees  flee  hame  wi’  lades  o’  treasure, 

The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi’  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O’er  a’  the  ills  o’  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 

You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 

Or  like  the  snow-fall  in  the  river, 

A moment  white — then  melts  for  ever ; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 

Or  like  the  rainbow’s  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride — 

That  hour  o’  night’s  black  arch  the  key- 
stane, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in  ; 
And  sic  a night  he  takes  the  road  in 
As  ne’er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  ’twad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast ; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellowed; 
That  night  a child  might  understand 
The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg, 

(A  better  never  lifted  leg), 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro’  dub  and  mire, 

Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire — 

Whyles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whyles  crooning  o’er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet, 
Whyles  glow’ring  round  wi’  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 

Where  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 

Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored ; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 

Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak ’s  neck  bane ; 
And  thro’  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn ; 


TAM  0’  SHANTER. 


And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

Whare  Mungo’s  mither  hang’d  hersel. 

Before  him  Boon  pours  all  his  floods : 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro’  the  woods ; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 

When  glimmering  thro’  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk- Alio  way  seem’d  in  a bleeze ; 

Thro’  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn! 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 

Wi’  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil ; 

Wi’  usquabae  we  ’ll  face  the  Devil! — 

The  swats  sae  ream’d  in  Tammie’s  nod- 
dle, 

Fair  play,  he  car’d  na  Deils  a bodle. 

But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish’d, 

Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish’d, 

She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 

And,  wow ! Tam  saw  an  unco  sight — 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a dance : 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 

A winnock-bunker  in  the  east, 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o’  beast — 

A towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large — 

To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge ; 

He  screw’d  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 

Till  roof  an’  rafters  a’  did  dirl. 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 

That  shaw’d  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrips  sleight, 

Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a light — 

By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 

A murderer’s  banes  in  gibbet  aims ; 

Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristen’d  bairns; 

A thief,  new  cutted  fra  a rape, 

Wi’  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 

Five  tomahawks,  wi’  bluid  red  rusted ; 

Five  scymitars,  wi’  murder  crusted ; 

A garter  which  a babe  had  strangled ; 

A knife  a father’s  throat  had  mangled, 

Whom  his  ain  son  o’  life  bereft — 

The  grey  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 

Three  lawyers’  tongues  turn’d  inside  out, 

Wi’  lies  seam’d  like  a beggar’s  clout; 

And  priests’  hearts,  rotten,  black  as  muck, 
Lay  stinking,  vile,  in  every  neuk  : 


421 

Wi’  mair  o’  horrible  and  awfu’, 

Which  ev’n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’. 

As  Tammie  glowr’d,  amazed,  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious ; 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 

They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they 
cleckit, 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark. 

Now  Tam,  O Tam ! had  they  been  queans 
A’  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens : 

Their  sarks,  instead  o’  creeshie  flannen, 

Been  snaw- white  seventeen-hunder  linen ; 
Thir  breeks  o’  mine,  my  only  pair, 

That  ance  were  plush,  o’  guid  blue  hair, 

I wad  hae  gi’en  them  aff  my  hurdies,' 

For  ae  blink  o’  the  bonnie  burdies ! 

But  withered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a foal, 

Lowping  an’  flinging  on  a crummock — 

I wonder  did  na  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn’d  what  was  what  fu’  brawlie. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  inlisted  in  the  core, 

(Lang  after  kenn’d  on  Carrick  shore ! 

For  monie  a beast  to  dead  she  shot, 

And  perish’d  monie  a bonnie  boat, 

And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 

And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear), 

Her  cutty-sark  o’  Paisley  harn, 

That  while  a lassie  she  had  worn — 

In  longitude  tho’  sorely  scanty, 

It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. 

Ah ! little  kenn’d  thy  reverend  grannie 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 

Wi’  twa  pund  Scots  (twas  a’  her  riches) — 
Wad  ever  grac’d  a dance  o’  witches! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cow’r, 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  pow’r ; 

To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 

(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  strang) ; 

And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch’d, 

And  thought  his  very  een  enrich’d. 

Ev’n  Satan  glowr’d,  and  fidg’d  fu’  fain, 

And  hotch’d  and  blew  wi’  might  and  main 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither — 

Tam  tint  his  reason  a’  tliegither, 

And  roars  out,  Weel  done,  CuttysarJc ! 

And  in  an  instant  a’  was  dark ; 


422 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 

When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi’  angry  fyke, 

When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke ; 

As  open  pussie’s  mortal  foes, 

When  pop ! she  starts  before  their  nose ; 

As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd, 

When  Catch  the  thief!  resounds  aloud ; 

So  Maggie  runs — the  witches  follow, 

Wi’  monie  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 
Ah,  Tam ! ah,  Tam ! thou  ’ll  get  thy  fair- 
in’! 

In  hell  they  ’ll  roast  thee  like  a herrin ! 

In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  cornin’ — 

Kate  soon  will  be  a woefu’  woman ! 

Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 

And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig ; 

There  stt  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss — 

A running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 

But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 

The  fient  a tail  she  had  to  shake ; 

For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 

Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 

And  flew  at  Tam  wi’  furious  ettle ; 

But  little  wist  she  Maggie’s  mettle — 

Ae  spring  brought  aff  her  master  hale, 

But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail : 

The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 

And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o’  truth  shall  read, 

Ilk  man  and  mother’s  son  take  heed ; 
Whene’er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 

Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 

Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o’er  dear, 
Remember  Tam  o’  Shanter’s  mare. 

Robebt  Bubnb. 


COLOGNE. 

In  Koln,  a town  of  monks  and  bones, 

And  pavements  fanged  with  murderous  stones, 
And  rags,  and  hags,  and  hideous  wenches — 

I counted  two  and  seventy  stenches, 

All  well  defined  and  several  stinks! 

Ye  Nymphs  that  reign  o’er  sewers  and  sinks, 
The  river  Rhine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne ; 

But  tell  me,  Nymphs ! what  power  divine 
Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ? 

Samuel  Taylob  Colekidge.  ! 


THE  DEVIL’S  THOUGHTS. 

i. 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
A walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 

To  visit  his  snug  little  farm,  the  Earth, 

And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

n. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain ; 

And  backward  and  forward  he  switched  his 
long  tail, 

As  a gentleman  switches  his  cane, 
in. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

0 ! he  was  in  his  Sunday’s  best : 

His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were 
blue, 

And  there  was  a hole  where  the  tail  came 
through. 

IV. 

He  saw  a lawyer  killing  a viper 

On  a dunghill,  hard  by  his  own  stable ; 
And  the  Devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind 
Of  Cain  and  his  brother  Abel. 

v. 

He  saw  an  Apothecary  on  a white  horse 
Ride  by  on  his  vocations ; 

And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 
Death,  in  the  Revelations. 

VI. 

He  saw  a cottage  with  a double  coach-house, 
A cottage  of  gentility; 

And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 
Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

VII. 

He  peeped  into  a rich  bookseller’s  shop — 
Quoth  he,  “We  are  both  of  one  college! 
For  I sate,  myself,  like  a cormorant,  once, 
Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.” 

VIII. 

Down  the  river  did  glide,  with  wind  and  with 
tide, 

A pig  with  vast  celerity ; 


THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE  KNIFE-GRINDER.  423 


And  the  Devil  looked  wise  as  he  saw  how, 
the  while, 

It  cut  its  own  throat.  “ There ! ” quoth  he 
with  a smile, 

Goes  England’s  commercial  prosperity.” 

IX. 

As  he  went  through  Cold-Bath  Fields  he  saw 
A solitary  cell ; 

And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a 
hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  Hell. 

x. 

He  saw  a turnkey  in  a trice 
Fetter  a troublesome  blade ; 

“Nimbly,”  quoth  he,  “ do  the  fingers  move 
If  a man  be  but  used  to  his  trade.” 

XI. 

He  saw  the  same  turnkey  unfetter  a man 
With  but  little  expedition ; 

Which  put  him  in  mind  of  the  long  debate 
On  the  Slave-trade  abolition. 

XII. 

He  saw  an  old  acquaintance 
As  he  passed  by  a Methodist  meeting ; 

She  holds  a consecrated  key, 

And  the  Devil  nods  her  a greeting. 

XIII. 

She  turned  up  her  nose,  and  said, 

“Avaunt ! — my  name ’s  Religion ! ” 

And  she  looked  to  Mr. 

And  leered  like  a love-sick  pigeon. 

xiv. 

He  saw  a certain  minister 
(A  minister  to  his  mind) 

Go  up  into  a certain  House, 

With  a majority  behind; 

xv. 

The  Devil  quoted  Genesis, 

Like  a very  learned  clerk, 

How  “Noah  and  his  creeping  things 
Went  up  into  the  Ark.” 


XVI. 

He  took  from  the  poor, 

And  he  gave  to  the  rich, 

And  he  shook  hands  with  a Scotchman, 
For  he  was  not  afraid  of  the 


* * 

* * 

General 

XVII. 

— burning  face 

He  saw  with  consternation, 

And  back  to  hell  his  way  did  he  take — 
For  the  Devil  thought  by  a slight  mistake 
It  was  general  conflagration. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


THE  FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY  AND  THE 
KNIFE-GRINDER. 

FRIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

“Needy  Knife-grinder!  whither  are  you 
going? 

Rough  is  the  road ; your  wheel  is  out  of  order. 
Bleak  blows  the  blast ; — your  hat  has  got  a 
hole  in ’t ; 

So  have  your  breeches ! 

“ Weary  Knife-grinder ! little  think  the  proud 
ones, 

Who  in  their  coaches  roll  along  the  turnpike- 
road,  what  hard  work  ’ t is  crying  all  day, 
1 Knives  and 
Scissors  to  grind  0 ! ’ 

“Tell  me,  Knife-grinder,  how  came  you  to 
grind  knives? 

Did  some  rich  man  tyrannically  use  you  ? 
Was  it  the  squire?  or  parson  of  the  parish? 
Or  the  attorney  ? 

“Was  it  the  squire,  for  killing  of  his  game?  or 
Covetous  parson,  for  his  tithes  distraining? 
Or  roguish  lawyer,  made  you  lose  your  little 
All  in  a lawsuit  ? 

“(Have  you  not  read  the  Rights  of  Man,  by 
Tom  Paine  ?) 

Drops  of  compassion  tremble  on  my  eyelids, 
Ready  to  fall,  as  soon  as  you  have  told  your 
Pitiful  story.” 


424 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


KXIFE-GEIXDEE. 

“Story!  God  bless  yon!  I have  none  to  tell, 
Sir; 

Only,  last  night,  a-drinking  at  the  Cheqners, 
This  poor  old  hat  and  breeches,  as  yon  see, 
were 

Torn  in  a scuffle. 

“ Constables  came  up  for  to  take  me  into 
Custody ; they  took  me  before  the  justice ; 
Justice  Oldmixon  put  me  in  the  parish- 
stocks  for  a vagrant. 

‘I  should  be  glad  to  drink  your  honor’s 
health  in 

A pot  of  beer,  if  you  will  give  me  sixpence ; 
But  for  my  part,  I never  love  to  meddle 
With  politics,  Sir.” 

FEIEND  OF  HUMANITY. 

“ I give  thee  sixpence ! I will  see  thee  damned 
first — 

Wretch!  whom  no  sense  of  wrongs  can  rouse 
to  vengeance — 

Sordid,  unfeeling,  reprobate,  degraded, 
Spiritless  outcast ! ” 

[Kicks  the  Knife-grinder,  overturns  his  wheel,  and  exit 
in  a transport  of  Republican  enthusiasm  and  uni- 
versal philanthropy.'] 

Geobge  Canning. 


SONG 

OF  ONE  ELEVEN  YEAES  IN  PEISON. 

Whene’ee  with  haggard  eyes  I view 
This  dungeon  that  I ’m  rotting  in, 

I think  of  those  companions  true 
Who  studied  with  me  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[ Weeps  and  pulls  out  a blue  kerchief  with  which  he 
wipes  his  eyes;  gazing  tenderly  at  it,  he  proceeds ;] 

Sweet  kerchief,  checked  with  heavenly  blue, 
Which  once  my  love  sat  knotting  in — 

Adas,  Matilda  then  was  true ! 

At  least  I thought  so  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[At  the  repetition  of  this  line  he  clanks  his  chains  in 
cadence.] 


Barbs ! barbs  I alas ! how  swift  you  flew, 
Her  neat  post- wagon  trotting  in ! 

Ye  bore  Matilda  from  my  view ; 

Forlorn  I languished  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen 

This  faded  form ! this  pallid  hue ! 

This  blood  my  veins  is  clotting  in ! 

My  years  are  many — they  were  few 
When  first  I entered  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

There  first  for  thee  my  passion  grew, 

Sweet,  sweet  Matilda  Pottingen ! 

Thou  wast  the  daughter  of  my  tu- 
tor, law-professor  at  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen 

Sun,  moon,  and  thou,  vain  world,  adieu, 

That  kings  and  priests  are  plotting  in ; 

Here  doomed  to  starve  on  water  gru- 
el, never  shall  I see  the  U- 

niversity  of  Gottingen, 
niversity  of  Gottingen. 

[During  the  last  stanza  he  dashes  his  head  repeat- 
edly against  the  walls  of  his  prison,  and  finally 
so  hard  as  to  produce  a visible  contusion.  He  then 
throws  himself  on  the  floor  in  am  agony.  The  curtain 
drops,  the  music  still  continuing  to  play  till  it  is 
wholly  fallen.] 

Geobge  Canning. 


THE  LITTLE  BROWN  MAN. 

A little  man  we ’ve  here, 

All  in  a suit  of  brown, 

Upon  town ; 

He ’s  as  brisk  as  bottled  beer, 

And,  without  a shilling  rent, 

Lives  content : 

“ For  d’ye  see,”  says  he,  “ my  plan — 
D’ye  see,”  says  he,  “ my  plan — 

My  plan,  d’ye  see,  ’s  to — laugh  at  that ! ” 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  Little  Brown 
Man. 


THE  ESSENCE  OF  OPERA. 


425 


When  every  mad  grisette 
He  has  toasted,  till  his  scoro 
Holds  no  more ; 

Then  head  and  ears  in  debt, 

When  the  duns  and  bums  abound 
All  around, 

w D’ye  see,”  says  he,  “ my  plan — 

D’ye  see,”  says  he,  “ my  plan — 

My  plan,  d’ye  see,  ’s  to — laugh  at  that ! ” 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  Little  Brown 
Man! 

When  the  rain  comes  through  his  attic, 
And  he  lies  all  day  a-bed 
Without  bread ; 

When  the  winter  winds  rheumatic 
Make  him  blow  his  nails,  for  dire 
Want  of  fire, 

“ D’ye  see,”  says  he,  “my  plan — 

D’ye  see,”  says  he,  “ my  plan — 

My  plan,  d’ye  see,  ’s  to — laugh  at  that ! ” 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  Little  Brown 
Man! 

His  wife,  a dashing  figure, 

Makes  shift  to  pay  her  clothes 
By  her  beaux ; 

The  gallanter  they  rig  her, 

The  more  the  people  sneer 
At  her  dear : 

“ Then  d’ye  see,”  says  he,  rt  my  plan— 

D’ye  see,”  says  he,  “my  plan — 

My  plan,  d’ye  see,  ’s  to — laugh  at  that ! ” 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  Little  Brown 
Man! 

When  at  last  laid  fairly  level, 

And  the  priest  (he  getting  worse) 

’Gan  discourse 

Of  death  and  of  the  Devil, 

Our  little  sinner  sighed, 

And  replied : 

“ Please  your  reverence,  my  plan — 

Please  your  reverence,  my  plan — 

My  plan,  d’ye  see,  ?s  to — laugh  at  that ! ” 
Sing  merrily,  sing  merrily,  the  Little  Brown 
Man ! 

Piebre  Jean  db  Beranger.  (French.) 

Anonymous  Translation. 


THE  ESSENCE  OF  OPERA; 

OE,  ALMANZOR  AND  IMOGEN. 

An  Opera , in  three  Acts. 


SUBJECT  OF  THE  OPERA. 

A brave  young  Prince  a young  Princess  adores ; 

A combat  kills  him,  but  a god  restores. 

PROLOGUE. 

A Musician.  People,  appear,  approach,  ad- 
vance ! 

To  Singers. 

You  that  can  sing,  the  chorus  bear ! 

To  Dancers. 

You  that  can  turn  your  toes  out,  dance ! 
Let ’s  celebrate  this  faithful  pair. 


ACT  I. 

Imogen.  My  love ! 

Almanzor.  My  soul ! 

Both.  At  length  then  we  unite ! 
People,  sing,  dance,  and  show  us  your  delight ! 
Chorus.  Let ’s  sing,  and  dance,  and  show 
’em  our  delight. 


ACT  II. 

Imogen.  O love ! 

[A  noise  of  war.  The  Prince  appears,  pursued  by  his 
enemies.  Combat.  The  Princess  faints.  The  Prince 
is  mortally  woilnded .] 

Almanzor.  Alas! 

Imogen.  Ah,  what ! 

Almanzor.  I die ! 

Imogen.  Ah  me ! 

People,  sing,  dance,  and  show  your  misery  ! 
Chorus.  Let’s  sing,  and  dance,  and  show 
our  misery. 


ACT  III. 

{Pallas  descends  in  a cloud  to  Almanzor  and  speaks.'] 
Pallas.  Almanzor,  live ! 

Imogen.  Oh,  bliss! 

Almanzor.  What  do  I see  ? 

Trio.  People,  sing,  dance,  and  hail  this 
prodigy ! 

Chorus.  Let’s  sing,  and  dance,  and  hail 
this  prodigy. 

Anonymous  (French). 

Anonymous  Translation. 


426 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


HYPOCHONDRIACUS. 

By  myself  walking, 

To  myself  talking, 

When  as  I ruminate 
On  my  untoward  fate, 

Scarcely  seem  I 
Alone  sufficiently, 

Black  thoughts  continually 
Crowding  my  privacy ; 

They  come  unbidden, 

Like  foes  at  a wedding, 

Thrusting  their  faces 
In  better  guests’  places, 

Peevish  and  malcontent, 

Clownish,  impertinent, 

Dashing  the  merriment : 

So,  in  like  fashions, 

Dim  cogitations 
Follow  and  haunt  me, 

Striving  to  daunt  me, 

In  my  heart  festering, 

In  my  ears  whispering — 

“Thy  friends  are  treacherous, 

Thy  foes  are  dangerous, 

Thy  dreams  ominous.” 

Fierce  Anthropophagi, 

Spectres,  Diaboli — 

What  scared  St.  Anthony — 
Hobgoblins,  Lemures, 

Dreams  of  Antipodes ! 

Night-riding  Incubi 
Troubling  the  fantasy, 

All  dire  illusions 
Causing  confusions : 

Figments  heretical, 

Scruples  fantastical, 

Doubts  diabolical ! 

Abaddon  vexeth  me ; 

Mahu  perplexeth  me ; 

Lucifer  teareth  me — 

Jesu  ! Maria  ! liberate  nos  ab  his  dir  is  i 
■ entationibus  Inimici. 

Charles  Lamb. 


A FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 

May  the  Babylonish  curse 

Strait  confound  my  stammering  verse, 

If  I can  a passage  see 
In  this  word-perplexity, 

Or  a fit  expression  find, 

Or  a language  to  my  mind 
(Still  the  phrase  is  wide  or  scant), 

To  take  leave  of  thee,  great  plant ! 

Or  in  any  terms  relate 
Half  my  love,  or  half  my  hate ; 

For  I hate,  yet  love,  thee  so, 

That,  whichever  thing  I shew, 

The  plain  truth  will  seem  to  be 
A constrained  hyperbole, 

And  the  passion  to  proceed 
More  for  a mistress  than  a weed. 

Sooty  retainer  to  the  vine ! 

Bacchus’s  black  servant,  negro  fine ! 
Sorcerer ! that  mak’st  us  dote  upon 
Thy  begrimed  complexion, 

And,  for  thy  pernicious  sake, 

More  and  greater  oaths  to  break 
Than  reclaimed  lovers  take 
’Gainst  women ! Thou  thy  siege  dost  lay 
Much,  too,  in  the  female  way, 

While  thou  suck’st  the  lab’ring  breath 
Faster  than  kisses,  or  than  death. 

Thou  in  such  a cloud  dost  bind  us 
That  our  worst  foes  cannot  find  us, 

And  ill  fortune,  that  would  thwart  us, 
Shoots  at  rovers,  shooting  at  us ; 

While  each  man,  through  thy  height’ning 
steam, 

Does  like  a smoking  Etna  seem ; 

And  all  about  us  does  express 
(Fancy  and  wit  in  richest  dress) 

A Sicilian  fruitfulness. 

Thou  through  such  a mist  dost  show  us 
That  our  best  friends  do  not  know  us, 
And,  for  those  allowed  features 
Due  to  reasonable  creatures, 

Liken’st  us  to  fell  chimeras, 

Monsters — that  who  see  us,  fear  us ; 
Worse  than  Cerberus  or  Geryon, 

Or,  who  first  loved  a cloud,  Ixion. 


j 


A FAREWELL  TO  TOBACCO. 


427 


Bacchus  we  know,  and  we  allow 
His  tipsy  rites.  But  what  art  thou, 

That  hut  by  reflex  can’st  shew 
What  his  deity  can  do — 

As  the  false  Egyptian  spell 
Aped  the  true  Hebrew  miracle  ? 

Some  few  vapors  thou  may’st  raise, 

The  weak  brain  may  serve  to  amaze ; 
But  to  the  reins  and  nobler  heart 
Can’st  nor  life  nor  heat  impart. 

Brother  of  Bacchus,  later  born ! 

The  old  world  was  sure  forlorn, 

Wanting  thee,  that  aidest  more 
The  god’s  victories  than,  before, 

All  his  panthers,  and  the  brawls 
Of  his  piping  Bacchanals. 

These,  as  stale,  we  disallow, 

Or  judge  of  thee  meant : only  thou 
His  true  Indian  conquest  art ; 

And,  for  ivy  round  his  dart, 

The  reformed  god  now  weaves 
A finer  thyrsus  of  thy  leaves. 

Scent  to  match  thy  rich  perfume 
Chemic  art  did  ne’er  presume — 
Through  her  quaint  alembic  strain, 

Hone  so  sov ’reign  to  the  brain. 

Nature,  that  did  in  thee  excel, 

Framed  again  no  second  smell. 

Hoses,  violets,  but  toys 
For  the  smaller  sort  of  boys, 

Or  for  greener  damsels  meant ; 

Thou  art  the  only  manly  scent. 

Stinking’st  of  the  stinking  kind ! 

Filth  of  the  mouth  and  fog  of  the  mind ! 
Africa,  that  brags  her  foyson, 

Breeds  no  such  prodigious  poison ! 
Henbane,  nightshade,  both  together, 
Hemlock,  aconite 

Hay,  rather, 

Plant  divine,  of  rarest  virtue ! 

Blisters  on  the  tongue  would  hurt  you ! 
’T  was  but  in  a sort  I blamed  thee ; 

None  e’er  prospered  who  defamed  thee ; 
Irony  all,  and  feigned  abuse, 

Such  as  perplext  lovers  use 
At  a need,  when,  in  despair 
To  paint  forth  their  fairest  fair, 


Or  in  part  but  to  express 
That  exceeding  comeliness 
Which  their  fancies  doth  so  strike 
They  borrow  language  of  dislike ; 

And,  instead  of  dearest  Miss, 

Jewel,  Honey,  Sweetheart,  Bliss, 

And  those  forms  of  old  admiring, 

Call  her  Cockatrice  and  Siren, 

Basilisk,  and  all  that ’s  evil, 

Witch,  Hyena,  Mermaid,  Devil, 

Ethiop,  Wench,  and  Blackamoor, 
Monkey,  Ape,  and  twenty  more — 
Friendly  Trait’ress,  loving  Foe — 

Hot  that  she  is  truly  so, 

But  no  other  way  they  know 
A contentment  to  express 
Borders  so  upon  excess 
That  they  do  not  rightly  wot 
Whether  it  be  from  pain  or  not. 

Or,  as  men,  constrained  to  part 
With  what ’s  nearest  to  their  heart, 
While  their  sorrow ’s  at  the  height 
Lose  discrimination  quite, 

And  their  hasty  wrath  let  fall, 

To  appease  their  frantic  gall, 

On  the  darling  thing,  whatever, 

Whence  they  feel  it  death  to  sever, 
Though  it  be,  as  they,  perforce, 

Guiltless  of  the  sad  divorce. 

For  I must  (nor  let  it  grieve  thee, 
Friendliest  of  plants,  that  I must)  leave 

thee. 

For  thy  sake,  Tobacco,  I 
Would  do  anything  but  die, 

And  but  seek  to  extend  my  days 
Long  enough  to  sing  thy  praise. 

But,  as  she,  who  once  hath  been 
A king’s  consort,  is  a queen 
Ever  after,  nor  will  bate 
Any  tittle  of  her  state 
Though  a widow,  or  divorced — 

So  I,  from  thy  converse  forced, 

The  old  name  and  style  retain, 

A right  Catherine  of  Spain ; 

And  a seat,  too,  ’mongst  the  joys 
Of  the  blest  Tobacco  Boys ; 

Where  though  I,  by  sour  physician, 

Am  debarred  the  full  fruition 
Of  thy  favors,  I may  catch 
Some  collateral  sweets,  and  snatch 


428 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


Sidelong  odors,  that  give  life 
Like  glances  from  a neighbor’s  wife ; 
And  still  live  in  the  by-places 
And  the  suburbs  of  thy  graces  ; 

And  in  thy  borders  take  delight, 

An  unconquered  Canaanite. 

Charles  Lamb. 


SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH 
CLOISTER. 

i. 

Gr-k-e — there  go,  my  heart’s  abhorrence ! 

Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 

If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God’s  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you ! 
What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims — 

Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming  ? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames ! 

n. 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together : 

Salve  tibi ! I must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year  : 

Not  a plenteous  cork-crop : scarcely 
Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I doubt : 

What’s  the  Latin  name  for  “parsley?” 
What’s  the  Greek  name  for  Swine’s  Snout? 

in. 

Whew ! We  ’ll  have  our  platter  burnished, 
Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf! 

With  a fire-new  spoon  we’re  furnished, 

And  a goblet  for  ourself, 

Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 
Ere  ’tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps — 

Marked  with  L.  for  our  initial ! 

(He,  he ! There  his  lily  snaps !) 

IV. 

Saint,  forsooth ! While  brown  Dolores 
Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank, 

With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 

Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick,  like  horsehairs, 

— Can’t  I see  his  dead  eye  glow 
Bright,  as  ’twere  a Barbary  corsair’s  ? 

(That  is,  if  he ’d  let  it  show !) 


v. 

When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu’s  praise. 

I the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp — 

In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp ! 

VI. 

Oh,  those  melons ! If  he ’s  able 
We  ’re  to  have  a feast;  so  nice ! 

One  goes  to  the  Abbot’s  table ; 

All  of  us  get  each  a slice. 

How  go  on  your  flowers ? None  double? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy  ? 

Strange ! — And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 
Keep  ’em  close-nipped  on  the  sly ! 

VII. 

There ’s  a great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations — 

One  sure,  if  another  fails. 

If  I trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  Heaven  as  sure  can  be, 

Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 
Off  to  Hell,  a Manichee  ? 

vm. 

Or  my  scrofulous  French  novel, 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type ! 

Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 
Hand  and  foot  in  Belial’s  gripe : 

If  I double  down  its  pages 
At  the  woeful  sixteenth  print, 

When  he  gathers  his  green  gages, 

Ope  a sieve  and  slip  it  in ’t  ? 

IX. 

Or,  there’s  Satan! — one  might  venture 
Pledge  one’s  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a flaw  in  the  indenture 
As  he ’d  miss,  till  past  retrieve, 

Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 
We’re  so  proud  of!  Hy,  Zy,  Hine  . . . 
’St,  there’s  Vespers!  Plena  gratia 
Ave  Virgo ! Gr-r-r — you  swine ! 

Robert  Browning. 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 


429 


FAITHLESS  NELLY  GRAY. 

A PATHETIC  BALLAD. 

Ben  Battle  was  a soldier  bold, 

And  used  to  war’s  alarms ; 

But  a cannon-ball  took  off  bis  legs, 

So  be  laid  down  bis  arms ! 

Now  as  they  bore  bim  off  tbe  field, 

Said  be,  “ Let  others  sboot; 

For  bere  I leave  my  second  leg, 

And  the  Forty-second  Foot ! ” 

Tbe  army-surgeons  made  bim  limbs : 
Said  be,  “ They  ’re  only  pegs ; 

But  there ’s  as  wooden  members  quite, 
As  represent  my  legs  ! ” 

Now  Ben  be  loved  a pretty  maid — 

Her  name  was  Nelly  Gray ; 

So  be  went  to  pay  her  his  devours, 
When  he  devoured  bis  pay ! 

But  when  he  called  on  Nelly  Gray, 

She  made  him  quite  a scoff ; 

And  when  she  saw  his  wooden  legs, 
Began  to  take  them  off ! 

14  O,  Nelly  Gray ! 0,  Nelly  Gray ! 

Is  this  your  love  so  warm  ? 

The  love  that  loves  a scarlet  coat 
Should  be  more  uniform ! ” 

Said  she,  “ I loved  a soldier  once, 

For  he  was  blithe  and  brave ; 

But  I will  never  have  a man 
With  both  legs  in  the  grave ! 

“Before  you  had  those  timber  toes 
Your  love  I did  allow  ; 

But  then,  you  know,  you  stand  upon 
Another  footing  now ! ” 

“ O,  Nelly  Gray ! O,  Nelly  Gray ! 

For  all  your  jeering  speeches, 

At  duty’s  call  I left  my  legs 
In  Badajos’s  breaches ! ” 

“Why  then,”  said  she,  “you’ve  lost  the 
feet 

Of  legs  in  war’s  alarms, 

And  now  you  cannot  wear  your  shoes 
Upon  your  feats  of  arms ! ” 


“ O,  false  and  fickle  Nelly  Gray! 

I know  why  you  refuse : 

Though  I ’ve  no  feet,  some  other  man 
Is  standing  in  my  shoes ! 

“ I wish  I ne’er  had  seen  your  face; 

But,  now,  a long  farewell ! 

For  you  will  be  my  death ; — alas ! 

You  will  not  be  my  Nell ! ” 

Now  when  he  went  from  Nelly  Gray 
His  heart  so  heavy  got, 

And  life  was  such  a burden  grown, 

It  made  him  take  a knot ! 

So  round  his  melancholy  neck 
A rope  he  did  entwine, 

And,  for  his  second  time  in  life, 

Enlisted  in  the  Line ! 

One  end  he  tied  around  a beam, 

And  then  removed  his  pegs  ; 

And,  as  his  legs  were  off, — of  course 
He  soon  was  off  his  legs ! 

And  there  he  hung,  till  he  was  dead 
As  any  nail  in  town ; 

For,  though  distress  had  cut  him  up, 

It  could  not  cut  him  down ! 

A dozen  men  sat  on  his  corpse, 

To  find  out  why  he  died — 

And  they  buried  Ben  in  four  cross-  roads, 
With  a stake  in  his  inside ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


FAITHLESS  SALLY  BROWN. 

AN  OLD  BALLAD. 

Young  Ben  he  was  a nice  young  man, 

A carpenter  by  trade ; 

And  he  fell  in  love  with  Sally  Brown, 
That  was  a lady’s  maid. 

But  as  they  fetched  a walk  one  day, 
They  met  a press-gang  crew ; 

And  Sally  she  did  faint  away, 

Whilst  Ben  he  was  brought  to. 

The  boatswain  swore  with  wicked  words, 
Enough  to  shock  a saint, 

That  though  she  did  seem  in  a fit, 

’T  was  nothing  but  a feint. 


430 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


“ Come,  girl,”  said  he,  “hold  up  your  head — 
He  ’ll  he  as  good  as  me ; 

For  when  your  swain  is  in  our  boat 
A boatswain  he  will  he.” 

So  when  they ’d  made  their  game  of  her, 
And  taken  off  her  elf. 

She  roused,  and  found  she  only  was 
A coming  to  herself. 

“ And  is  he  gone,  and  is  he  gone  ? ” 

She  cried,  and  wept  outright : 

“ Then  I will  to  the  water-side, 

And  see  him  out  of  sight.” 

A waterman  came  up  to  her : 

“How,  young  woman,”  said  he, 

“ If  you  weep  on  so,  you  will  make 
Eye-water  in  the  sea.” 

“ Alas ! they ’ve  taken  my  beau,  Ben, 

To  sail  with  old  Benbow ; ” 

And  her  woe  began  to  run  afresh, 

As  if  she ’d  said,  Gee  woe! 

Says  he,  “ They ’ve  only  taken  him 
To  the  tender-ship,  you  see : ” 

“ The  tender-ship,”  cried  Sally  Brown — 

“ "What  a hard-ship  that  must  be ! 

“ Oh ! would  I were  a mermaid  now, 

For  then  I ’d  follow  him ; 

But  0 ! — I ’m  not  a fish-woman, 

And  so  I cannot  swim. 

“ Alas ! I was  not  born  beneath 
The  virgin  and  the  scales, 

So  I must  curse  my  cruel  stars, 

And  walk  about  in  Wales.” 

How  Ben  had  sailed  to  many  a place 
That ’s  underneath  the  world ; 

But  in  two  years  the  ship  came  home, 

And  all  her  sails  were  furled. 

But  when  he  called  on  Sally  Brown, 

To  see  how  she  got  on, 

He  found  she ’d  got  another  Ben, 

Whose  Christian-name  was  John. 

“ 0,  Sally  Brown,  O,  Sally  Brown, 

How  could  you  serve  me  so  ? 

I ’ve  met  with  many  a breeze  before, 

But  never  such  a blow ! ” 


Then  reading  on  his  ’bacco  box, 

He  heaved  a heavy  sigh, 

And  then  began  to  eye  his  pipe, 

And  then  to  pipe  his  eye. 

And  then  he  tried  to  sing  “ All’s  Well,” 
But  could  not,  though  he  tried  ; 

His  head  was  turned — and  so  he  chewed 
His  pigtail  till  he  died. 

His  death,  which  happened  in  his  berth, 
At  forty-odd  befell ; 

They  went  and  told  the  sexton,  and 
The  sexton  tolled  the  bell. 

Thomas  Hood. 


A TABLE  OF  ERRATA. 

Hostess  loquitur. 

Well  ! thanks  be  to  Heaven, 
The  summons  is  given ; 

It ’s  only  gone  seven 
And  should  have  been  six ; 
There ’s  fine  overdoing 
In  roasting  and  stewing, 

And  victuals  past  chewing, 
To  rags  and  to  sticks ! 

How  dreadfully  chilly ! 

I shake,  willy-nilly ; 

That  John  is  so  silly, 

And  never  will  learn ; 

This  plate  is  a cold  one ; 

That  cloth  is  an  old  one ; 

I wish  they  had  told  one 
The  lamp  would  ’nt  burn. 

How  then  for  some  blunder, 
For  nerves  to  sink  under ; 

I never  shall  wonder 
Whatever  goes  ill. 

That  fish  is  a riddle — 

It ’s  broke  in  the  middle : 

A Turbot  ? — a fiddle ! 

It ’s  only  a Brill ! 

It ’s  quite  over-boiled  too ; 
The  butter  is  oiled  too ; 

The  soup  is  all  spoiled  too— 
It ’s  nothing  but  slop. 


A TABLE  OF  ERRATA. 


431 


The  smelts  looking  flabby, 
The  soles  are  as  dabby ; 

It  is  so  shabby — 

That  cook  shall  not  stop ! 

As  sure  as  the  morning 
She  gets  a month’s  warning, 
My  orders  for  scorning — 
There ’s  nothing  to  eat ! 

I hear  such  a rushing ; 

I feel  such  a flushing ; 

I know  I am  blushing 
As  red  as  a beet ! 

Friends  flatter  and  flatter — 
I wish  they  would  chatter ; 
What  can  be  the  matter 
That  nothing  comes  next  ? 
How  very  unpleasant ! 

Lord ! there  is  the  pheasant ! 
Hot  wanted  at  present — 

I ’m  born  to  be  vext ! 

The  pudding  brought  on  too, 
And  aiming  at  ton  too ! 

And  where  is  that  John  too, 
The  plague  that  he  is  ? 

He ’s  off  on  some  ramble. 
And  there  is  Miss  Campbell 
Enjoying  the  scramble — 
Detestable  quiz ! 

The  veal  they  all  eye  it, 

But  no  one  will  try  it ; 

An  ogre  would  shy  it — 

So  ruddy  as  that ! 

And  as  for  the  mutton, 

The  cold  dish  it ’s  put  on 
Converts  to  a button 
Each  drop  of  the  fat. 

The  beef  without  mustard ! 
My  fate ’s  to  be  flustered ; 
And  there  comes  the  custard 
To  eat  with  the  hare ! 

Such  flesh,  fowl,  and  fishing, 
Such  waiting  and  dishing ! 

I cannot  help  wishing 
A woman  might  swear ! 

0 dear ! did  I ever  ? 

But  no,  I did  never — 

Well,  come,  that  is  clever, 


To  send  up  the  brawn ! 

That  cook,  I gould  scold  her, 

Gets  worse  as  she ’s  older ; 

I wonder  who  told  her 
That  woodcocks  are  drawn ! 

It ’s  really  audacious ! 

I cannot  look  gracious. 

Lord  help  the  voracious 
That  came  for  a cram ! 

There ’s  Alderman  Fuller 
Gets  duller  and  duller. 

Those  fowls,  by  the  colour, 

Were  boiled  with  the  ham! 

Well,  where  is  the  curry? 

I ’m  all  in  a flurry. 

Ho,  cook ’s  in  no  hurry— 

A stoppage  again ! 

And  John  makes  it  wider — 

A pretty  provider ! 

By  bringing  up  cider 
Instead  of  champagne ! 

My  troubles  come  faster ! 

There ’s  my  lord  and  master 
Detects  each  disaster, 

And  hardly  can  sit. 

He  cannot  help  seeing 
All  things  disagreeing ; 

If  Tie  begins  d — ing, 

I ’m  off  in  a fit ! 

This  cooking  ? — it ’s  messing ! 

The  spinach  wants  pressing, 

And  salads  in  dressing 
Are  best  with  good  eggs. 

And  John — yes,  already — 

Has  had  something  heady, 

That  makes  him  unsteady 
In  keeping  his  legs. 

How  shall  I get  through  it? 

I never  can  do  it ; 

I ’m  quite  looking  to  it, 

To  sink  by  and  by. 

O ! would  I were  dead  now, 

Or  up  in  my  bed  now, 

To  cover  my  head  now 
And  have  a good  cry ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


432 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


THE  LADY  AT  SEA. 

Cables  entangling  her ; 
Ship-spars  for  mangling  her 
Ropes  sure  of  strangling  her ; 
Blocks  over-dangling  her ; 

Tiller  to  hatter  her ; 

Topmast  to  shatter  her ; 

Tobacco  to  spatter  her ; 

Boreas  blustering ; 

Boatswain  quite  flustering ; 
Thunder-clouds  mustering, 

To  blast  her  with  sulphur — 

If  the  deep  don ’t  ingulph  her ; 
Sometimes  fear ’s  scrutiny 
Pries  out  a mutiny, 

Sniffs  conflagration, 

Or  hints  at  starvation ; 

All  the  sea  dangers, 

Buccaneers,  rangers, 

Pirates,  and  Sallee-men, 

Algerine  galleymen, 

Tornadoes  and  typhons, 

And  horrible  syphons, 

And  submarine  travels 
Thro1  roaring  sea-navels ; 

Every  thing  wrong  enough — 
Long-boat  not  long  enough ; 
Vessel  not  strong  enough  ; 

Pitch  marring  frippery ; 

The  deck  very  slippery ; 

And  the  cabin — built  sloping ; 
The  Captain  a-toping ; 

And  the  mate  a blasphemer, 
That  names  his  Redeemer — 
With  inward  uneasiness ; 

The  cook  known  by  greasiness ; 
The  victuals  beslubbered ; 

Her  bed — in  a cupboard; 

Things  of  strange  christening, 
Snatched  in  her  listening ; 

Blue  lights  and  red  lights, 

And  mention  of  dead  lights ; 
And  shrouds  made  a theme  of — 
Things  horrid  to  dream  of ; 

And  buoys  in  the  water ; 

To  fear  all  exhort  her. 

Her  friend  no  Leander — 

Herself  no  sea  gander ; 


And  ne’er  a cork  jacket 
On  board  of  the  packet ; 

The  breeze  still  a-stiffening ; 

The  trumpet  quite  deafening ; 
Thoughts  of  repentance, 

And  doomsday,  and  sentence ; 

Every  thing  sinister — 

Hot  a church  minister ; 

Pilot  a blunderer ; 

Coral  reefs  under  her, 

Ready  to  sunder  her : 

Trunks  tipsy-topsy ; 

The  ship  in  a dropsy ; 

Waves  oversurging  her ; 

Sirens  a-dirging  her ; 

Sharks  all  expecting  her ; 

Sword-fish  dissecting  her ; 

Crabs  with  their  hand- vices 
Punishing  land  vices ; 

Sea-dogs  and  unicorns, 

Things  with  no  puny  horns; 

Mermen  carnivorous — 

“ Good  Lord  deliver  us ! ” 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL. 

On  decK,  beneath  the  awning, 

I dozing  lay  and  yawning ; 

It  was  the  gray  of  dawning, 

Ere  yet  the  sun  arose ; 

And  above  the  funnel’s  roaring, 

And  the  fitful  wind’s  deploring, 

I heard  the  cabin  snoring 
With  universal  nose. 

I could  hear  the  passengers  snorting- 
I envied  their  disporting — 

Vainly  I was  courting 
The  pleasure  of  a doze. 

So  I lay,  and  wondered  why  light 
Came  not,  and  watched  the  twilight, 
And  the  glimmer  of  the  skylight, 

That  shot  across  the  deck ; 

And  the  binnacle  pale  and  steady, 

And  the  dull  glimpse  of  the  dead-eye, 
And  the  sparks  in  fiery  eddy 

That  whirled  from  the  chimney  neck. 
In  our  jovial  floating  prison 


THE  WHITE  SQUALL. 


There  was  sleep  from  fore  to  mizzen, 

And  never  a star  had  risen 
The  hazy  sky  to  speck. 

Strange  company  we  harbored : 

We ’d  a hundred  Jews  to  larboard, 
Unwashed,  uncombed,  unbarbered — 

Jews  black,  and  brown,  and  gray. 

With  terror  it  would  seize  ye, 

And  make  your  souls  uneasy, 

To  see  those  Rabbis  greasy, 

Who  did  nought  but  scratch  and  pray. 
Their  dirty  children  puking — 

Their  dirty  saucepans  cooking — 

Their  dirty  fingers  hooking 
Their  swarming  fleas  away. 

To  starboard  Turks  and  Greeks  were — 
Whiskered  and  brown  their  cheeks  were — 
Enormous  wide  their  breeks  were — 

Their  pipes  did  puff  away ; 

Each  on  his  mat  allotted 
In  silence  smoked  and  squatted, 

Whilst  round  their  children  trotted 
In  pretty,  pleasant  play. 

He  can’t  but  smile  who  traces 
The  smiles  on  those  brown  faces, 

And  the  pretty,  prattling  graces 
Of  those  small  heathens  gay. 

And  so  the  hours  kept  tolling — 

And  through  the  ocean  rolling 
Went  the  brave  Iberia  bowling, 

Before  the  break  of  day 

When  a squall,  upon  a sudden, 

Came  o’er  the  waters  scudding ; 

And  the  clouds  began  to  gather, 

And  the  sea  was  lashed  to  lather, 

And  the  lowering  thunder  grumbled, 

And  the  lightning  jumped  and  tumbled  ; 
And  the  ship,  and  all  the  ocean, 

Woke  up  in  wild  commotion. 

Then  the  wind  set  up  a howling, 

And  the  poodle  dog  a yowling, 

And  the  cocks  began  a crowing, 

And  the  old  cow  raised  a lowing, 

As  she  heard  the  tempest  blowing ; 

And  fowls  and  geese  did  cackle ; 

And  the  cordage  and  the  tackle 
Began  to  shriek  and  crackle ; 

28 


43J. 

And  the  spray  dashed  o’er  the  funnels, 
And  down  the  deck  in  runnels ; 

And  the  rushing  water  soaks  all, 

From  the  seamen  in  the  fo’ksal 
To  the  stokers,  whose  black  faces 
Peer  out  of  their  bed-places ; 

And  the  captain  he  was  bawling, 

And  the  sailors  pulling,  hauling, 

And  the  quarter-deck  tarpauling 
Was  shivered  in  the  squalling; 

And  the  passengers  awaken, 

Most  pitifully  shaken ; 

And  the  steward  jumps  up,  and  hastens 
For  the  necessary  basins. 

Then  the  Greeks  they  groaned  and  quiv- 
ered, 

And  they  knelt,  and  moaned,  and  shivered, 
As  the  plunging  waters  met  them, 

And  splashed  and  overset  them ; 

And  they  called  in  their  emergence 
Upon  countless  saints  and  virgins ; 

And  their  marrowbones  are  bended, 

And  they  think  the  world  is  ended. 

And  the  Turkish  women  for’ard 
Were  frightened  and  behorrored; 

And,  shrieking  and  bewildering, 

The  mothers  clutched  their  children ; 

The  men  sang  “ Allah ! Illah  ! 

Mashallah  Bismillah ! ” 

As  the  warring  waters  doused  them, 

And  splashed  them  and  soused  them ; 

And  they  called  upon  the  Prophet, 

And  thought  but  little  of  it. 

Then  all  the  fleas  in  Jewry 
Jumped  up  and  bit  like  fury: 

And  the  progeny  of  Jacob 
Did  on  the  main-deck  wake  up, 

(I  wot  those  greasy  Rabbins 
Would  never  pay  for  cabins;) 

And  each  man  moaned  and  jabbered  in 
His  filthy  Jewish  gabardine, 

In  woe  and  lamentation, 

And  howling  consternation. 

And  the  splashing  water  drenches 
Their  dirty  brats  and  wenches ; 

And  they  crawl  from  bales  and  benches, 

In  a hundred  thousand  stenches. 

This  was  the  white  squall  famon  . 

Which  latterly  o’crcame  us, 


434 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


And  which  all  will  remember, 

On  the  28th  September : 

When  a Prussian  captain  of  Lancers 
(Those  tight-laced,  whiskered  prancers) 
Came  on  the  deck  astonished, 

By  that  wild  squall  admonished, 

And  wondering  cried,  “ Potz  tausend, 

Wie  ist  der  Sturm  jetzt  brausend?  ” 

And  looked  at  Captain  Lewis, 

Who  calmly  stood  and  blew  his 
Cigar  in  all  the  bustle, 

And  scorned  the  tempest’s  tussle ; 

And  oft  we ’ve  thought  thereafter 
How  he  beat  the  storm  to  laughter ; 

For  well  he  knew  his  vessel 
With  that  vain  wind  could  wrestle ; 

And  when  a wreck  we  thought  her, 

And  doomed  ourselves  to  slaughter, 

How  gaily  he  fought  her, 

And  through  the  hubbub  brought  her, 

And  as  the  tempest  caught  her, 

Cried,  “George,  some  brandy  and  water ! ” 

And  when,  its  force  expended, 

The  harmless  storm  was  ended, 

And  as  the  sunrise  splendid 
Came  blushing  o’er  the  sea, — 

I thought,  as  day  was  breaking, 

My  little  girls  were  waking, 

And  smiling,  and  making 
A prayer  at  home  for  me. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeeay. 


ST.  PATRICK  WAS  A GENTLEMAN. 

Oh  ! St.  Patrick  was  a gentleman, 

Who  came  of  decent  people ; 

He  built  a church  in  Dublin  town, 

And  on  it  put  a steeple. 

His  father  was  a Gallagher ; 

His  mother  was  a Brady ; 

His  aunt  was  an  O’Shaughnessy, 

His  uncle  an  O’Grady. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he 's  a saint  so  clever  ; 

0 ! he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist , 
And  bothered  them  for  ever  f 


The  Wicklow  hills  are  very  high, 

And  so ’s  the  Hill  of  Howth,  sir ; 

But  there ’s  a hill,  much  bigger  still, 
Much  higher  nor  them  both,  sir. 

’T  was  on  the  top  of  this  high  hill 
St.  Patrick  preached  his  sarmint 

That  drove  the  frogs  into  the  bogs, 

And  banished  all  the  varmint. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he's  a saint  so  clever  ; 

0 1 he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist , 
And  bothered  them  for  ever  ! 

There ’s  not  a mile  in  Ireland’s  isle 
Where  dirty  varmin  musters, 

But  there  he  put  his  dear  fore-foot, 

And  murdered  them  in  clusters. 

The  toads  went  pop,  the  frogs  went  hop. 
Slap-dash  into  the  water ; 

And  the  snakes  committed  suicide 
To  save  themselves  from  slaughter. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he's  a saint  so  clever ; 

0 ! he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist , 
And  bothered  them  for  ever  ! 

« 

Nine  hundred  thousand  reptiles  blue 
He  charmed  with  sweet  discourses, 

And  dined  on  them  at  Killaloe 
In  soups  and  second  courses. 

Where  blind  worms  crawling  in  the  grass 
Disgusted  all  the  nation, 

He  gave  them  a rise,  which  opened  their 
eyes 

To  a sense  of  their  situation. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he 's  a saint  so  clever  ; 

0 ! he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist, 
And  bothered  them  for  ever  ! 

No  wonder  that  those  Irish  lads 
Should  be  so  gay  and  frisky, 

For  sure  St.  Pat  he  taught  them  that, 

As  well  as  making  whiskey ; 

No  wonder  that  the  saint  himself 
Should  understand  distilling, 

Since  his  mother  kept  a shebeen  shop 
In  the  town  of  Enniskillen. 

So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he 's  a saint  so  clever  ; 

0!  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist, 
And  bothered  them  for  ever  ! 


ST.  PATRICK  OF  IRELAND,  MY  DEAR. 


435 


O ! was  I but  so  fortunate 
As  to  be  back  in  Munster, 

’T  is  I ’d  be  bound  that  from  that  ground 
I never  more  would  once  stir. 

For  there  St.  Patrick  planted  turf, 

And  plenty  of  the  praties, 

With  pigs  galore,  ma  gra,  ma  ’store, 

And  cabbages — and  ladies ! 

Then  my  blessing  on  St.  Patricks  fist , 
For  he  h the  darling  saint  0 ! 

0 ! he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a twist ; 
He 's  a beauty  without  paint  0! 

Heney  Bennett. 


ST.  PATRICK  OF  IRELAND,  MY  DEAR! 

A fig  for  St.  Denis  of  France — 

He ’s  a trumpery  fellow  to  brag  on ; 

A fig  for  St.  George  and  his  lance, 

Which  spitted  a heathenish  dragon ; 

And  the  saints  of  the  Welshman  or  Scot 
Are  a couple  of  pitiful  pipers, 

Both  of  whom  may  just  travel  to  pot, 
Compared  with  that  patron  of  swipers — 
St.  Patrick  of  Ireland,  my  dear ! 

He  came  to  the  Emerald  Isle 
On  a lump  of  a paving-stone  mounted ; 

The  steamboat  he  beat  by  a mile, 

Which  mighty  good  sailing  was  counted. 

Says  he,  “ The  salt  water,  I think, 

Has  made  me  most  bloodily  thirsty ; 

So  bring  me  a flagon  of  drink 
To  keep  down  the  mulligrubs,  burst  ye ! 

Of  drink  that  is  fit  for  a saint ! ” 

He  preached,  then,  with  wonderful  force, 
The  ignorant  natives  a-teaching; 

With  a pint  he  washed  down  his  discourse, 

“ For,”  says  he,  “ I detest  your  dry  preach- 
ing.” 

The  people,  with  wonderment  struck 
At  a pastor  so  pious  and  civil, 

Exclaimed — “We  ’re  for  you,  my  old  buck ! 
And  we  pitch  our  blind  gods  to  the  Devil, 
Who  dwells  in  hot  water  below ! ” 


This  ended,  our  worshipful  spoon 
Went  to  visit  an  elegant  fellow, 

Whose  practice,  each  cool  afternoon, 

Was  to  get  most  delightfully  mellow. 

That  day,  with  a black-jack  of  beer, 

It  chanced  he  was  treating  a party ; 

Says  the  saint — “ This  good  day,  do  you  hear 
I drank  nothing  to  speak  of,  my  hearty ! 
So  give  me  a pull  at  the  pot ! ” 

The  pewter  he  lifted  in  sport 
(Believe  me,  I tell  you  no  fable)  ; 

A gallon  he  drank  from  the  quart, 

And  then  placed  it  full  on  the  table. 

“A  miracle ! ” every  one  said — 

And  they  all  took  a haul  at  the  stingo ; 

They  were  capital  hands  at  the  trade, 

And  drank  till  they  fell ; yet,  by  jingo, 

The  pot  still  frothed  over  the  brim ! 

Next  day,  quoth  his  host,  “ ’T  is  a fast, 

And  I ’ve  nought  in  my  larder  but  mutton ; 

And  on  Fridays  who ’d  make  such  repast, 
Except  an  unchristian-like  glutton  ? ” 

Says  Pat,  “ Cease  your  nonsense,  I beg — 
What  you  tell  me  is  nothing  but  gammon , 

Take  my  compliments  down  to  the  leg, 

And  bid  it  come  hither  a salmon ! ” 

And  the  leg  most  politely  complied. 

You’ve  heard,  I suppose,  long  ago, 

How  the  snakes,  in  a manner  most  antic, 

He  marched  to  the  County  Mayo, 

And  trundled  them  into  th’  Atlantic. 

Hence,  not  to  use  water  for  drink, 

The  people  of  Ireland  determine — 

With  mighty  good  reason,  I think, 

Since  St.  Patrick  has  filled  it  with  vermin, 
And  vipers,  and  such  other  stuff! 

0 ! he  was  an  elegant  blade 
As  you ’d  meet  from  Fairhead  to  Kilcrum- 
per; 

And  though  under  the  sod  he  is  laid, 

Yet  here  goes  his  health  in  a bumper ! 

I wish  he  was  here,  that  my  glass 
He  might  by  art  magic  replenish ; 

But  since  he  is  not — why,  alas! 

My  ditty  must  come  to  a finish, — 

Because  all  the  liquor  is  out ! 

William  Maginn. 


436 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


THE  IRISHMAN, 

i. 

Theee  was  a lady  lived  at  Leith, 

A lady  very  stylish,  man — 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  teeth, 

She  fell  in  love  with  an  Irishman — 

A nasty,  ngly  Irishman — 

A wild,  tremendous  Irishman — 

A tearing,  swearing,  thumping,  bumping, 
ranting,  roaring  Irishman. 

n. 

His  face  was  no  ways  beautiful, 

For  with  small-pox  ’twas  scarred  across; 

And  the  shoulders  of  the  ugly  dog 
"Were  almost  double  a yard  across. 

O,  the  lump  of  an  Irishman — 

The  whiskey  devouring  Irishman — 
The  great  he-rogue  with  his  wonderful  brogue 
— the  fighting,  rioting  Irishman ! 

m. 

One  of  his  eyes  was  bottle  green, 

And  the  other  eye  was  out,  my  dear ; 

And  the  calves  of  his  wicked-looking  legs 
Were  more  than  two  feet  about,  my  dear ! 
0,  the  great  big  Irishman — 

The  rattling,  battling  Irishman — 

The  stamping,  ramping,  swaggering,  stagger- 
ing, leathering  swash  of  an  Irishman. 

IV. 

He  took  so  much  of  Lundy-foot 
That  he  used  to  snort  and  snuffle-0 ; 

And  in  shape  and  size  the  fellow’s  neck 
Was  as  bad  as  the  neck  of  a buffalo. 

0,  the  horrible  Irishman — 

The  thundering,  blundering  Irishman — 
The  slashing,  dashing,  smashing,  lashing, 
thrashing,  hashing  Irishman. 

v. 

His  name  was  a terrible  name,  indeed, 
Being  Timothy  Thady  Mulligan ; 

And  whenever  he  emptied  his  tumbler  of 
punch 


He ’d  not  rest  till  he  filled  it  full  again ; 
The  boozing,  bruising  Irishman — 

The  ’toxicated  Irishman — 

The  whiskey,  frisky,  rummy,  gummy,  brandy, 
no  dandy  Irishman. 

vi. 

This  was  the  lad  the  lady  loved, 

Like  all  the  girls  of  quality ; 

And  he  broke  the  skulls  of  the  men  of 
Leith, 

Just  by  the  way  of  jollity ; 

O,  the  leathering  Irishman — 

The  barbarous,  savage  Irishman — 

The  hearts  of  the  maids  and  the  gentlemen’s 
heads  were  bothered  I’m  sure  by  this 
Irishman. 

William  Magetct. 


THE  GROVES  OF  BLARNEY. 

The  groves  of  Blarney  they  look  so  charming, 
Down  by  the  purlings  of  sweet  silent 
brooks — 

All  decked  by  posies,  that  spontaneous  grow 
there, 

Planted  in  order  in  the  rocky  nooks. 

’Tis  there  the  daisy,  and  the  sweet  carnation, 
The  blooming  pink,  and  the  rose  so  fair ; 
Likewise  the  lily,  and  the  daffodilly — 

All  flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  open  air. 

’Tis  Lady  Jeffers  owns  this  plantation, 

Like  Alexander,  or  like  Helen  fair ; 

There ’s  no  commander  in  all  the  nation 
For  regulation  can  with  her  compare. 

Such  walls  surround  her,  that  no  nine-poundei 
Could  ever  plunder  her  place  of  strength ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell,  he  did  her  pommel, 
And  made  a breach  in  her  battlement. 

There’s  gravel  walks  there  for  speculation, 
And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude ; 

’Tis  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 
The  gentle  plover,  in  the  afternoon. 

And  if  a young  lady  should  be  so  engaging 
As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bowers, 

’T  is  there  her  courtier  he  may  transport  her 
In  some  dark  fort,  or  under  the  ground. 


THE  TOWN  OF  PASSAGE. 


For ’t is  there’s  the  cave  where  no  daylight 
enters, 

But  hats  and  badgers  are  for  ever  bred ; 
Being  mossed  by  natur’,  that  makes  it  sweeter 
Than  a coach  and  six,  or  a feather  bed. 

Tis  there’s  the  lake  that  is  stored  with 
perches, 

And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud ; 
Besides  the  leeches,  and  the  groves  of  beeches, 
All  standing  in  order  for  to  guard  the  flood. 

’Tis  there’s  the  kitchen  hangs  many  a flitch 

in, 

With  the  maids  a-stltching  upon  the  stair ; 
The  bread  and  biske’,  the  beer  and  whiskey, 
Would  make  you  frisky  if  you  were  there. 
’T  is  there  you ’d  see  Peg  Murphy’s  daughter 
A washing  praties  forenent  the  door, 

With  Eoger  Cleary,  and  Father  Healy, 

All  blood  relations  to  my  Lord  Donough- 
more. 

There ’s  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in, 
All  heathen  goddesses  so  fair — 

Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nicodemus, 

All  standing  naked  in  the  open  air. 

So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 

Which  my  poor  geni’  could  not  entwine ; 
But  were  I Homer,  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 

’T  is  in  every  feature  I would  make  it  shine. 

Eichabd  Alfred  Millikin. 


THE  TOWN  OF  PASSAGE. 

The  town  of  Passage 
Is  both  large  and  spacious, 
And  situated 
Upon  the  say ; 

’Tis  nate  and  dacenl, 

And  quite  adjacent 
To  come  from  Cork 
On  a summer’s  day. 
There  you  may  slip  in, 

To  take  a dipping, 
Forenent  the  shipping 
That  at  anchor  ride ; 

Or  in  a wherry 
Cross  o’er  the  ferry, 

To  “ Carrigaloe, 

On  the  other  side.” 


43 1 

Mud  cabins  swarm  in 
This  place  so  charming, 

With  sailors’  garments 
Hung  out  to  dry ; 

And  each  abode  is 
Snug  and  commodious, 

With  pigs  melodious 
In  their  straw-built  sty. 

’Tis  there  the  turf  is, 

And  lots  of  Murphies, 

Dead  sprats  and  herrings, 

And  oyster-shells ; 

Nor  any  lack,  O ! 

Of  good  tobacco, 

Though  what  is  smuggled 
By  far  excels. 

There  are  ships  from  Cadiz, 

And  from  Barbadoes — 

But  the  leading  trade  is 
In  whiskey-punch ; 

And  you  may  go  in 
Where  one  Molly  Bowen 
Keeps  a nate  hotel 
For  a quiet  lunch. 

But  land  or  deck  on, 

You  may  safely  reckon, 
Whatsoever  country 
You  come  hither  from, 

On  an  invitation 
To  a jollification 
With  a parish  priest 

That’s  called  “Father  Tom.” 

Of  ships  there’s  one  fixt 
For  lodging  convicts — 

A floating  “stone  jug” 

Of  amazing  bulk ; 

The  hake  and  salmon, 

Playing  at  backgammon, 

Swim  for  divarsion 
All  round  this  hulk. 

There  “Saxon”  jailers 
Keep  brave  repailers 
Who  soon  with  sailors 
Must  anchor  weigh 
From  th’  em’rald  island, 

Ne’er  to  see  dry  land 
Until  they  spy  land 
In  sweet  Bot’ny  Bay. 

Fatheb  Pbout.  (Francis  Mahony.) 


438 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY 


MOLONY’S  LAMENT. 

0 Tim,  did  you  hear  of  thim  Saxons, 

And  read  what  the  peepers  repoort  ? 

They  ’re  goan  to  recal  the  Liftinant, 

And  shut  up  the  Castle  and  Coort ! 

Our  desolate  counthry  of  Oireland 
They  ’re  bint,  the  blagyards,  to  desthroy ; 
And  now,  having  murdthered  our  counthry, 
They  ’re  goin  to  kill  the  Viceroy, 

Dear  boy! — 

’T  was  he  was  our  proide  and  our  joy. 

And  will  we  no  longer  behould  him, 
Surrounding  his  carriage  in  throngs, 

As  he  weaves  his  cocked  hat  from  the  win- 
dies. 

And  smiles  to  his  bould  aid-de-congs  ? 

1 liked  for  to  see  the  young  haroes, 

All  shoining  with  sthripes  and  with  stars, 
A horsing  about  in  the  Phaynix, 

And  winking  the  girls  in  the  cyars — 

Like  Mars, 

A smokin’  their  poipes  and  cigyars. 

Dear  Mitchell,  exoiled  to  Bermudies, 

Your  beautiful  oilids  you  ’ll  ope ! — 

And  there  ’ll  be  an  abondance  of  croyin 
From  O’Brine  at  the  Keep  of  Good  Hope — 
When  they  read  of  this  news  in  the  pee- 
pers, 

Acrass  the  Atlantical  wave, 

That  the  last  of  the  Oirish  Liftinints 
Of  the  oisland  of  Seents  has  tuck  lave. 

God  save 

The  Queen — she  should  betther  behave ; 

And  what ’s  to  become  of  poor  Dame  Sthreet, 
And  who  ’ll  ait  the  puffs  and  the  tarts, 
Whin  the  Coort  of  imparial  splindor 
From  Doblin’s  sad  city  departs  ? 

And  who  ’ll  have  the  fiddlers  and  pipers 
When  the  deuce  of  a Coort  there  remains ; 
And  where  ’ll  be  the  bucks  and  the  ladies, 

To  hire  the  Coort-shuits  and  the  thrains  ? 
In  sthrains 

It ’s  thus  that  ould  Erin  complains ! 


There ’s  Counsellor  Flanagan’s  leedy, 

’ Twas  she  in  the  Coort  didn’t  fail, 

And  she  wanted  a plinty  of  popplin 
For  her  dthress,  and  her  flounce,  and  hei 
tail ; 

She  bought  it  of  Misthress  O’ Grady — 

Eight  shillings  a yard  tabinet — 

But  now  that  the  Coort  is  concluded 
The  diwle  a yard  will  she  get : 

I bet, 

Bedad,  that  she  wears  the  old  set. 

There ’s  Surgeon  O’Toole  and  Miss  Leary, 
They ’d  daylings  at  Madam  O’Riggs’ ; 

Each  year,  at  the  dthrawing-room  savson, 
They  mounted  the  neatest  of  wigs. 

When  Spring,  with  its  buds,  and  its  dasies, 
Comes  out  in  her  beauty  and  bloom, 

Thim  tu  ’ll  never  think  of  new  jasies, 
Because  there  is  no  dthrawing-room, 

For  whom 

They ’d  choose  the  expense  to  ashume. 

There ’s  Alderman  Toad  and  his  lady, 

’ Twas  they  gave  the  Clart  and  the  Poort, 
And  the  poine-apples,  turbots,  and  lobsters, 
To  feast  the  Lord  Liftinint’s  Coort. 

But  now  that  the  quality’s  goin, 

I warnt  that  the  aiting  will  stop, 

And  you  ’ll  get  at  the  Alderman’s  teeble 
The  devil  a bite  or  a dthrop, 

Or  chop, 

And  the  butcher  may  shut  up  his  shop. 

Yes,  the  grooms  and  the  ushers  are  goin ; 

And  his  Lordship,  the  dear,  honest  man ; 
And  the  Duchess,  his  eemiable  leedy ; 

And  Corry,  the  bould  Connellan ; 

And  little  Lord  Hyde  and  the  childthren ; 

And  the  Chewter  and  Governess  tu ; 

And  the  servants  are  packing  their  boxes — 
0,  murther,  but  what  shall  I due 
Without  you  ? 

0 Meery,  with  ois  of  the  blue ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackebat. 


MR.  MOLONY’S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  BALL. 


MR.  MOLONY’S  ACCOUNT  OF  THE 
BALL 

GIVEN  TO  THE  NEPATJLESE  AMBASSADOR  BY  THE 
PENINSULAR  AND  ORIENTAL  COMPANY. 

0 will  ye  choose  to  hear  the  news  ? 

Bedad,  I cannot  pass  it  o’er : 

1 ’ll  tell  you  all  about  the  Ball 

To  the  Naypaulase  Ambassador. 

Begor ! this  fete  all  balls  does  bate 
At  which  I worn  a pump,  and  I 
Must  here  relate  the  splendthor  great 
Of  th’  Oriental  Company. 

These  men  of  sinse  dispoised  expinse, 

To  fete  these  black  Achilleses. 

“We’ll  show  the  blacks,”  says  they,  “Al- 
mack’s, 

And  take  the  rooms  at  Willis’s.” 

With  flags  and  shawls,  for  these  Nepauls, 
They  hung  the  rooms  of  Willis  up, 

And  decked  the  walls,  and  stairs,  and  halls, 
With  roses  and  with  lilies  up. 

And  Jullien’s  band  it  tuck  its  stand, 

So  sweetly  in  the  middle  there, 

And  soft  bassoons  played  heavenly  chunes, 
And  violins  did  fiddle  there. 

And  when  the  Coort  was  tired  of  spoort, 

I ’d  lave  you,  boys,  to  think  there  was 
A nate  buffet  before  them  set, 

Where  lashins  of  good  dhrink  there  was ! 

At  ten,  before  the  ball-room  door 
His  moighty  Excellency  was ; 

He  smoiled  and  bowed  to  all  the  crowd — 

So  gorgeous  and  immense  he  was. 

His  dusky  shuit,  sublime  and  mute, 

Into  the  door- way  followed  him ; 

And  O the  noise  of  the  blackguard  boys, 

As  they  hurrood  and  hollowed  him ! 

The  noble  Chair  stud  at  the  stair, 

And  bade  the  dthrums  to  thump  ; and  he 
Did  thus  evince  to  that  Black  Prince 
The  welcome  of  his  Company. 

0 fair  the  girls,  and  rich  the  curls, 

And  bright  the  oys  you  saw  there,  was ; 
A-nd  fixed  each  oye,  ye  there  could  spoi, 

On  Gineral  Jung  Bahawther  was ! 


430 

This  Gineral  great  then  tuck  his  sate, 

With  all  the  other  ginerals, 

(Bedad,  his  troat,  his  belt,  his  coat, 

All  bleezed  with  precious  minerals ;) 

And  as  he  there,  with  princely  air, 

Recloinin  on  his  cushion  was, 

All  round  about  his  royal  chair 
The  squeezin  and  the  pushin  was. 

0 Pat,  such  girls,  such  Jukes  and  Earls, 

Such  fashion  and  nobilitee ! 

Just  think  of  Tim,  and  fancy  him 
Amidst  the  hoigh  gentility ! 

There  was  Lord  De  L’Huys,  and  the  Porty- 
geese 

Ministher  and  his  lady  there ; 

And  I reckonized,  with  much  surprise, 

Our  messmate,  Bob  O’ Grady,  there ; 

There  was  Baroness  Brunow,  that  looked 
like  Juno, 

And  Baroness  Rehausen  there. 

And  Countess  Roullier,  that  looked  peculiar 
Well  in  her  robes  of  gauze,  in  there. 

There  was  Lord  Crowhurst  (I  knew  him  first 
When  only  Mr.  Pips  he  was), 

And  Mick  O’Toole,  the  great  big  fool, 

That  after  supper  tipsy  was. 

There  was  Lord  Fingall  and  his  ladies  all, 
And  Lords  Killeen  and  Dufferin, 

And  Paddy  Fife,  with  his  fat  wife — 

I wondther  how  he  could  stuff  her  in. 
There  was  Lord  Belfast,  that  by  me  past, 
And  seemed  to  ask  how  should  I go  there  ? 
And  the  Widow  Macrae,  and  Lord  A.  Hay, 
And  the  Marchioness  of  Sligo  there. 

Yes,  Jukes  and  Earls,  and  diamonds  and 
pearls, 

And  pretty  girls,  was  spoorting  there ; 

And  some  beside  (the  rogues!)  I spied 
Behind  the  windies,  coorting  there. 

0,  there ’s  one  I know,  bedad,  would  show 
As  beautiful  as  any  there ; 

And  I ’d  like  to  hear  the  pipers  blow, 

And  shake  a fut  with  Fanny  there ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


440 


POEMS  OF  COMEDY. 


TWENTY-EIGHT  AND  TWENTY-NINE. 

I heaed  a sick  man’s  dying  sigh, 

And  an  infant’s  idle  laughter : 

The  Old  Year  went  with  mourning  by — 
The  New  came  dancing  after ! 

Let  Sorrow  shed  her  lonely  tear — 

Let  Revelry  hold  her  ladle ; 

Bring  boughs  of  cypress  for  the  bier — 
Eling  roses  on  the  cradle ; 

Mutes  to  wait  on  the  funeral  state, 

Pages  to  pour  the  wine  : 

A requiem  for  Twenty-eight, 

And  a health  to  Twenty-nine ! 

Alas  for  human  happiness ! 

Alas  for  human  sorrow  ! 

Our  yesterday  is  nothingness — 

What  else  will  he  our  morrow  ? 

Still  Beauty  must  he  stealing  hearts, 

And  Knavery  stealing  purses ; 

Still  cooks  must  live  by  making  tarts, 

And  wits  by  making  verses ; 

While  sages  prate,  and  courts  debate, 

The  same  stars  set  and  shine ; 

And  the  world,  as  it  rolled  through  Twen- 
ty-eight, 

Must  roll  through  Twenty-nine. 

Some  king  will  come,  in  heaven’s  good 
time, 

To  the  tomb  his  father  came  to ; 

Some  thief  will  wade  through  blood  and 
crime 

To  a crown  he  has  no  claim  to ; 

Some  suffering  land  will  rend  in  twain 
The  manacles  that  bound  her, 

And  gather  the  links  of  the  broken  chain 
To  fasten  them  proudly  round  her ; 

The  grand  and  great  will  love  and  hate, 
And  combat  and  combine ; 

And  much  where  we  were  in  Twenty- 
eight, 

We  shall  be  in  Twenty-nine. 

O’Connell  will  toil  to  raise  the  Rent, 

And  Kenyon  to  sink  the  Nation ; 

And  Shiel  will  abuse  the  Parliament. 

And  Peel  the  Association ; 


And  thought  of  bayonets  and  swords 
Will  make  ex-Chancellors  merry  ; 

And  jokes  will  be  cut  in  the  House  of  Lords 
And  throats  in  the  County  of  Kerry ; 
And  writers  of  weight  will  speculate 
On  the  Cabinet’s  design ; 

And  just  what  it  did  in  Twenty-eight 
It  will  do  in  Twenty-nine. 

And  the  goddess  of  Love  will  keep  her 
smiles, 

And  the  god  of  Cups  his  orgies ; 

And  there  ’ll  be  riots  in  St.  Giles, 

And  weddings  in  St.  George’s ; 

And  mendicants  will  sup  like  kings, 

And  lords  will  swear  like  lacqueys ; 

And  black  eyes  oft  will  lead  to  rings, 

And  rings  will  lead  to  black  eyes ; 

And  pretty  Kate  will  scold  her  mate, 

In  a dialect  all  divine ; 

Alas ! they  married  in  Twenty-eight, 

They  will  part  in  Twenty-nine. 

My  uncle  will  swathe  his  gouty  limbs, 

And  talk  of  his  oils  and  blubbers ; 

My  aunt,  Miss  Dobbs,  will  play  longer 
hymns, 

And  rather  longer  rubbers ; 

My  cousin  in  Parliament  will  prove 
How  utterly  ruined  trade  is ; 

My  brother,  at  Eaton,  will  fall  in  love 
With  half  a hundred  ladies ; 

My  patron  will  sate  his  pride  from  plate, 
And  his  thirst  from  Bordeaux  wine — 
His  nose  was  red  in  Twenty-eight, 

’T  will  be  redder  in  Twenty-nine. 

And  O ! I shall  find  how,  day  by  day, 

All  thoughts  and  things  look  older — 
How  the  laugh  of  Pleasure  grows  less  gay, 
And  the  heart  of  Friendship  colder; 

But  still  I shall  be  what  I have  been, 
Sworn  foe  to  Lady  Reason, 

And  seldom  troubled  with  the  spleen, 

And  fond  of  talking  treason ; 

I shall  buckle  my  skate,  and  leap  my  gate, 
And  throw  and  write  my  line ; 

And  the  woman  I worshiped  in  Twenty- 
eight 

I shall  worship  in  Twenty-nine. 

Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed. 


WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS. 


441 


THE  RAIL. 

I met  him  in  the  cars, 

Where  resignedly  he  sat ; 

His  hair  was  full  of  dust, 

And  so  was  his  cravat ; 

He  was  furthermore  embellished 
By  a ticket  in  his  hat. 

The  conductor  touched  his  arm, 
And  awoke  him  from  a nap  ; 
When  he  gave  the  feeding  flies 
An  admonitory  slap, 

And  his  ticket  to  the  man 
In  the  yellow-lettered  cap. 

So,  launching  into  talk, 

We  rattled  on  our  way, 

With  allusions  to  the  crops 
That  along  the  meadows  lay— 
Whereupon  his  eyes  were  lit 
With  a speculative  ray. 

The  heads  of  many  men 
Were  bobbing  as  in  sleep, 

And  many  babies  lifted 
Their  voices  up  to  weep ; 

While  the  coal-dust  darkly  fell 
On  bonnets  in  a heap. 

All  the  while  the  swaying  cars 
Kept  rumbling  o’er  the  rail, 
And  the  frequent  whistle  sent 
Shrieks  of  anguish  to  the  gale, 
And  the  cinders  pattered  down 
On  the  grimy  floor  like  hail. 

When  suddenly  a jar, 

And  a thrice-repeated  hump, 
Made  the  people  in  alarm 
From  their  easy  cushions  jump  ; 
For  they  deemed  the  sounds  to  he 
The  inevitable  trump. 

A splintering  crash  below, 

A doom-foreboding  twitch, 

As  the  tender  gave  a lurch 
Beyond  the  flying  switch — 

And  a mangled  mass  of  men 
Lay  writhing  in  the  ditch. 


With  a palpitating  heart 
My  friend  essayed  to  rise ; 

There  were  bruises  on  his  limbs 
And  stars  before  his  eyes, 

And  his  face  was  of  the  hue 
Of  the  dolphin  when  it  dies. 

* * * ★ 

I was  very  well  content 
In  escaping  with  my  life ; 

But  my  mutilated  friend 
Commenced  a legal  strife-— 

Being  thereunto  incited 
By  his  lawyer  and  his  wife. 

And  he  writes  me  the  result, 

In  his  quiet  way  as  follows  : 

That  his  case  came  up  before 
A bench  of  legal  scholars, 

Who  awarded  him  his  claim, 

Of  $1500! 

George  H.  Clark. 


WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS. 


Guvenek  B.  is  a sensible  man ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an’  looks  arter  hig 
folks ; 

He  draws  his  furrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 

An’  into  nobody’s  tater-patch  pokes ; 

But  John  P. 

Robinson  he 

Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My ! aint  it  terrible  ? Wut  shall  we  du  ? 

We  can’t  never  choose  him,  o’  course- 
thet ’s  flat ; 

Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don’t  you?) 
An’  go  in  fer  thunder  an’  guns,  an’  all  that; 
Fer  John  P. 

Robinson  he 

Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  C.  is  a dreffle  smart  man : 

He ’s  ben  on  all  sides  that  give  places  or 
pelf; 

E ut  consistency  still  wuz  a part  of  his  plan — 
He’s  ben  true  to  one  party — an’  thet  is 
himself ; — 

So  John  P. 

Robinson  he 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 


442  POEMS  OF 

1 COMEDY. 

Gineral  0.  goes  in  fer  the  war ; 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts  lies*, 

He  don’t  vally  principle  more’n  an  old 

Sez  they’re  nothin’  on  airth  hut  jest  fee, 

cud; 

faw,  fum ; 

Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creeturs  fer, 

An’  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 

But  glory  an’  gunpowder,  plunder  an’ 

Is  half  on  it  ignorance,  an’ t’  other  half  rum 

blood? 

But  John  P. 

So  John  P. 

Robinson  he 

Robinson  he 

Sez  it  aint  no  sech  thing ; an’,  of  course,  so 

Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

must  we. 

We  were  gittin’  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  vil- 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in  his  life 
Thet  th’  Apostles  rigged  out  in  their  swal- 

lage, 

ler-tail  coats, 

With  good  old  idees  o’  wut’s  right  an’  wut 

An’  marched  round  in  front  of  a drum  an’  a 

aint, 

fife, 

We  kind  o’  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an’ 

To  git  some  on  ’em  office,  and  some  on  ’em 

pillage, 

votes; 

An’  thet  eppyletts  worn’t  the  best  mark  of 

But  John  P. 

a saint ; 

Robinson  he 

But  John  P. 

Sez  they  did  n’t  know  everythin’  down  in 

Robinson  he 

Judee. 

Sez  this  kind  o’  thing’s  an  exploded  idee. 
The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  he  took, 

Wal,  it’s  a marcy  we’ve  gut  folks  to  tell  us 
The  rights  an’  the  wrongs  o’  these  matters, 
I vow — 

An’  President  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our 

country ; 

An’  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a 

God  sends  country  lawyers,  an’  other  wise 
fellers, 

book 

To  drive  the  world’s  team  wen  it  gits  in  a 

Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an’  to  us  per  con- 

slough ; 

Per  John  P. 

try; 

Robinson  he 

An’  John  P. 

Sez  the  world  ’ll  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out 

Robinson  he 

Gee! 

Sez  this  is  his  view  o’  the  thing  to  a T. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 

POEMS 


PART  VII. 


P TRAGE 


DY  AND  SORROW. 


The  mournful  funeral  slow  proceeds  behind, 
Arrayed  in  black,  the  heavy  head  declined ; 

Wide  yawns  the  grave ; dull  tolls  the  solemn  bell ; 
Dark  lie  the  dead ; and  long  the  last  farewell. 

There  music  sounds,  and  dancers  shake  the  hall ; 
But  here  the  silent  tears  incessant  fall. 

Ere  Mirth  can  well  her  comedy  begin. 

The  tragic  demon  oft  comes  thundering  in, 
Confounds  the  actors,  damps  the  merry  show, 

And  turns  the  loudest  laugh  to  deepest  woe. 

John  Wilson. 


. 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 

*>« 


SIR  PATRICK  SPENS.  * 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine : 

“ O where  will  I get  a skeely  skipper 
To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine  ? ” 

0 up  and  spake  an  eldern  knight, 

Sat  at  the  king’s  right  knee : 

“Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea.” 

Our  king  has  written  a braid  letter, 

And  sealed  it  with  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 

Was  walking  on  the  strand. 

“ To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o’er  the  faem ; 

The  king’s  daughter  of  Noroway, 

’T  is  thou  maun  bring  her  hame ! 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud,  loud  laughed  he ; 

The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blindit  his  e’e. 

“ O wha  is  this  has  done  this  deed, 

And  tauld  the  king  o’  me, 

To  send  us  out  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea  ? 

“ Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  he  it 
sleet, 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 

The  king’s  daughter  of  Noroway, 

’T  is  we  must  fetch  her  hame.” 


They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Monenday  morn 
Wi’  a’  the  speed  they  may ; 

They  hae  landed  in  Noroway 
Upon  a Wodensday. 

They  hadna  been  a week,  a week 
In  Noroway,  hut  twae, 

When  that  the  lords  o’  Noroway 
Began  aloud  to  say : 

“Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a’  our  king’s  gowd 
And  a’  our  queenis  fee.” 

“Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud ! 

Fu’  loud  I hear  ye  lie ! 

“For  I hae  brought  as  much  white  monie 
As  gane  my  men  and  me, — 

And  I hae  brought  a half-fou  o’  gude  red 
gowd 

Out  owre  the  sea  wi’  me. 

“Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry 
men  a’ ! 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn.” 

“ Now,  ever  alake ! my  master  dear, 

I fear  a deadly  storm ! 

“ I saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi’  the  auld  moon  in  her  arm ; 

And  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I fear  we  ’ll  come  to  harm.” 

They  hadna  sailed  a league,  a league, 

A league,  but  barely  three, 

When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind 
blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 


446 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap, 

It  was  sic  a deadly  storm ; 

And  the  waves  came  o’er  the  broken  ship 
Till  a’  her  sides  were  torn. 

“ 0 where  will  I get  a gude  sailor 
To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 

Till  I get  up  to  the  tall  topmast 
To  see  if  I can  spy  land  ? ” 

“ O here  am  I,  a sailor  gude, 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 

Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  topmast, — 

But  I fear  you  ’ll  ne’er  spy  land.” 

He  hadna  gane  a step,  a step, 

A step,  hut  barely  ane, 

When  a boult  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship, 
And  the  salt  sea  it  came  in. 

“ Gae  fetch  a web  o’  the  silken  claith, 
Another  o’  the  twine, 

And  wap  them  into  our  ship’s  side, 

And  letna  the  sea  come  in.” 

They  fetched  a web  o’  the  silken  claith, 
Another  o’  the  twine, 

And  they  wapped  them  roun’  that  gude 
ship’s  side, 

— But  still  the  sea  came  in. 

0 laith,  laith  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 
To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon ! 

But  lang  or  a’  the  play  was  played, 

They  wat  their  hats  ahoon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather-bed 
That  floated  on  the  faem ; 

And  mony  was  the  gude  lord’s  son 
That  never  mair  came  hame. 

The  ladyes  wrang  their  fingers  white, — 
The  maidens  tore  their  hair ; 

A’  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves, — 

For  them  they  ’ll  see  na  mair. 

0 lang  lang  may  the  ladyes  sit, 

Wi’  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand ! 


And  lang  lang  may  the  maidens  sit, 

Wi’  their  gowd  kaims  in  their  hair, 

A’  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, — 

For  them  they  ’ll  see  na  mair. 

O forty  miles  off  Aberdour 
’T  is  fifty  fathoms  deep, 

And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Wi’  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 

Anonymous. 


CHILD  NORYCE. 

Child ‘Nobyce  is  a clever  young  man — 

He  wavers  wi’  the  wind ; 

His  horse  was  silver  shod  before, 

With  the  beaten  gold  behind. 

He  called  to  his  little  man  John, 

Saying,  “You  don’t  see  what  I see ; 

For  0 yonder  I see  the  very  first  woman 
That  ever  loved  me. 

“ Here  is  a glove,  a glove,”  he  said, 

“ Lined  with  the  silver  gray ; 

You  may  tell  her  to  come  to  the  merry 
green  wood, 

To  speak  to  child  FTory. 

“ Here  is  a ring,  a ring,”  he  says, 

“ It ’s  all  gold  but  the  stane ; 

You  may  tell  her  to  come  to  the  merry 
green  wood, 

And  ask  the  leave  o’  nane.” 

“ So  well  do  I love  your  errand,  my  master, 
But  far  better  do  I love  my  life ; 

O would  ye  have  me  go  to  Lord  Barnard’s 
castel, 

To  betray  away  his  wife  ? ” 

“ O do  n’t  I give  you  meat,”  he  says, 

“ And  do  n’t  I pay  you  fee  ? 

How  dare  you  stop  my  errand  ? ” he  says ; 
“My  orders  you  must  obey.” 

O when  he  came  to  Lord  Barnard’s  castel, 
He  tinkled  at  the  ring ; 

Who  was  as  ready  as  Lord  Barnard  himself 
To  let  this  little  boy  in  ? 


FAIR  ANNIE  OF  LOCHROYAN. 


44 1 


“ Here  is  a glove,  a glove,”  lie  says, 
“Lined  with  the  silver  gray ; 

You  are  hidden  to  come  to  the  merry  green 
wood, 

To  speak  to  Child  Nory. 

“ Here  is  a ring,  a ring,”  he  says, 

“It’s  all  gold  but  the  stane: 

You  are  hidden  to  come  to  the  merry  green 
wood, 

And  ask  the  leave  o’  nane.” 

Lord  Barnard  he  was  standing  by, 

And  an  angry  man  was  he  : 

“ O little  did  I think  there  was  a lord  in 
this  world 

My  lady  loved  but  me ! ” 

0 he  dressed  himself  in  the  Holland  smocks, 
And  garments  that  was  gay ; 

And  he  is  away  to  the  merry  green  wood, 
To  speak  to  Child  Nory. 

Child  Noryce  sits  on  yonder  tree — 

He  whistles  and  he  sings : 

“ 0 wae  he  to  me,”  says  Child  Noryce, 

“ Yonder  my  mother  comes ! ” 

Child  Noryce  he  came  off  the  tree, 

His  mother  to  take  off  the  horse : 

“ Och  alace,  alace!”says  Child  Noryce, 

“ My  mother  was  ne’er  so  gross.” 

Lord  Barnard  he  had  a little  small  sword, 
That  hung  low'  down  by  his  knee ; 

He  cut  the  head  off  Child  Noryce, 

And  put  the  body  on  a tree. 

And  when  he  came  to  his  castel, 

And  to  his  lady’s  hall, 

He  threw  the  head  into  her  lap, 

Saying,  “ Lady,  there  is  a ball ! ” 

She  turned  up  the  bloody  head, 

She  kissed  it  frae  cheek  to  chin : 

“Far  better  do  I love  this  bloody  head 
Than  all  my  royal  kin. 

“ When  I was  in  my  father’s  castel, 

In  my  virginitie, 

There  came  a lord  into  the  North, 

Gat  Child  Noryce  with  me.” 


“ 0 wae  be  to  thee,  Lady  Margaret,”  he 
said, 

“ And  an  ill  death  may  you  die ; 

For  if  you  had  told  me  he  was  your  son, 
He  had  ne’er  been  slain  by  me.” 

Anonymous. 


FAIR  ANNIE  OF  LOCHROYAN. 

“ O wha  will  shoe  my  fair  foot, 

And  wha  will  glove  my  han’  ? 

And  wha  will  lace  my  middle  jimp 
Wi’  a new  made  London  ban’  ? 

“ Or  wha  will  kemb  my  yellow  hair 
Wi’  a new-made  silver  kemb  ? 

Or  wha  ’ll  be  father  to  my  young  bairn, 

Till  love  Gregor  come  hame  ? ” 

“ Your  father  ’ll  shoe  your  fair  foot, 

Your  mother  glove  your  han’ ; 

Your  sister  lace  your  middle  jimp 
Wi’  a new-made  London  ban’ ; 

“Your brethren  will  kemb  your  yellow  hair 
Wi’  a new  made  silver  kemb; 

And  the  King  o’  Heaven  will  father  your 
bairn, 

Till  love  Gregor  come  hame.” 

“ 0 gin  I had  a bonny  ship, 

And  men  to  sail  wi’  me, 

It ’s  I wad  gang  to  my  true  love, 

Sin  he  winna  come  to  me ! ” 

Her  father ’s  gien  her  a bonny  ship, 

And  sent  her  to  the  stran’ ; 

She ’s  taen  her  young  son  in  her  arms, 

And  turned  her  back  to  the  lan.’ 

She  hadna  been  o’  the  sea  sailin’ 

About  a month  or  more, 

Till  landed  has  she  her  bonny  ship 
Near  her  true-love’s  door. 

The  nicht  was  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  cald, 
And  her  love  was  fast  asleep, 

And  the  bairn  that  was  in  her  twa  arms 
Fu’  sair  began  to  greet. 


448 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Lang  stood  she  at  her  true  love’s  door, 

And  lang  tirled  at  the  pin ; 

At  length  up  gat  his  fause  mother, 

Says,  “ Wha ’s  that  wad  be  in  ? ” 

“ O it  is  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

Your  love,  come  o’er  the  sea, 

But  and  your  young  son  in  her  arms ; 

So  open  the  door  to  me.” 

“ Awa,  awa,  ye  ill  woman ! 

You  ’re  nae  come  here  for  gude ; 

You  ’re  but  a witch,  or  a vile  warlock, 

Or  mermaid  o’  the  flude.” 

“ I ’m  nae  a witch  or  vile  warlock, 

Or  mermaiden,”  said  she ; — 

“I’m  but  your  Annie  of  Lochroyan; — 

0 open  the  door  to  me!” 

“ O gin  ye  be  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

As  I trust  not  ye  be, 

What  taiken  can  ye  gie  that  e’er 

1 kept  your  companie  ? ” 

uO  dinna  ye  mind,  love  Gregor,”  she  says, 
“ Whan  we  sat  at  the  wine, 

How  we  changed  the  napkins  frae  our 
necks  ? 

It ’s  nae  sae  lang  sinsyne. 

“ And  yours  was  gude,  and  gude  enough, 
But  nae  sae  gude  as  mine ; 

For  yours  was  o’  the  cambrick  clear, 

But  mine  o’  the  silk  sae  fine. 

“ And  dinna  ye  mind,  love  Gregor,”  she 
says, 

“ As  we  twa  sat  at  dine, 

How  we  changed  the  rings  frae  our  fingers, 
And  I can  shew  thee  thine : 

“ And  yours  was  gude,  and  gude 'enough, 
Yet  nae  sae  gude  as  mine ; 

For  yours  was  o’  the  gude  red  gold, 

But  mine  o’  the  diamonds  fine. 

“ Sae  open  the  door,  now,  love  Gregor, 
And  open  it  wi’  speed ; 

Or  your  young  son,  that  is  in  my  arms, 
For  cald  will  soon  be  dead.” 


“ Awa,  awa,  ye  ill  woman  J 
Gae  frae  my  door  for  shame ; 

For  I hae  gotten  anither  fair  love — 

Sae  ye  may  hie  you  hame.” 

“ 0 hae  ye  gotten  anither  fair  love, 

For  a’  the  oaths  ye  sware? 

Then  fare  ye  weel,  now,  fause  Gregor  : 

For  me  ye’s  never  see  mair!  ” 

O hooly,  hooly  gaed  she  back, 

As  the  day  began  to  peep ; 

She  set  her  foot  on  good  ship  board, 

And  sair,  sair  did  she  weep. 

“ Tak  down,  tak  down  the  mast  o’  goud ; 

Set  up  the  mast  o’  tree ; 

111  sets  it  a forsaken  lady 
To  sail  sae  gallantlie. 

“ Tak  down,  tak  down  the  sails  o’  silk ; 

Set  up  the  sails  o’  skin ; 

111  sets  the  outside  to  be  gay, 

Whan  there ’s  sic  grief  within ! ” 

Love  Gregor  started  frae  his  sleep, 

And  to  his  mother  did  say : 

“ I dreamt  a dream  this  night,  mither, 

That  maks  my  heart  richt  wae ; 

“ I dreamt  that  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

The  flower  o’  a’  her  kin, 

Was  standin’  mournin’  at  my  door; 

But  nane  wad  lat  her  in.” 

“ 0 there  was  a woman  stood  at  the  door, 
Wi’  a bairn  intill  her  arms; 

But  I wadna  let  her  within  the  bower, 

For  fear  she  had  done  you  harm.” 

O quickly,  quickly  raise  he  up, 

And  fast  ran  to  the  strand ; 

And  there  he  saw  her,  fair  Annie, 

Was  sailing  frae  the  land. 

And  “heigh,  Annie!  ” and  “how,  Annie! 

O,  Annie,  winna  ye  bide  ? ” 

But  ay  the  louder  that  he  cried  “ Annie,” 
The  higher  raired  the  tide. 

And  “heigh,  Annie!  ” and  “how,  Annie! 

O,  Annie,  speak  to  me ! ” 

But  ay  the  louder  that  he  cried  “Annie,” 
The  louder  raired  the  sea. 


THE  DOWIE  DENS  OF  YARROW. 


449 


The  wind  grew  loud,  and  the  sea  grew 
rough, 

And  the  ship  was  rent  in  twain  ; 

And  soon  he  saw  her,  fair  Annie, 

Come  floating  o’er  the  main. 

He  saw  his  young  son  in  her  arms, 

Baith  tossed  aboon  the  tide ; 

He  wrang  his  hands,  and  fast  he  ran, 

And  plunged  in  the  sea  sae  wide. 

He  catched  her  by  the  yellow  hair, 

And  drew  her  to  the  strand ; 

But  cald  and  stiff  was  every  limb, 

Before  he  reached  the  land. 

O first  he  kist  her  cherry  cheek, 

And  syne  he  kist  her  chin : 

And  sair  he  kist  her  ruby  lips, 

But  there  was  nae  breath  within. 

O,  he  has  mourned  o’er  fair  Annie, 

Till  the  sun  was  ganging  down ; 

Syne  wi’  a sich  his  heart  it  brast, 

And  his  saul  to  Heaven  has  flown. 

Anonymous. 


THE  DOWIE  DEN'S  OF  YARROW. 

Late  at  e’en,  drinking  the  wine, 

And  ere  they  paid  the  lawing, 

They  set  a combat  them  between, 

To  fight  it  in  the  dawing. 

“ 0 stay  at  hame,  my  noble  lord ! 

0 stay  at  hame,  my  marrow ! 

My  cruel  brother  will  you  betray 
On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow.” 

“ O fare  ye  weel,  my  ladye  gaye ! 

0 fare  ye  weel,  my  Sarah ! 

For  I maun  gae,  though  I ne’er  return 
Frae  the  dowie  banks  o’  Yarrow.” 

She  kissed  his  cheek,  she  kaimed  his  hair, 
As  oft  she  had  done  before,  0 ; 

She  belted  him  with  his  noble  brand, 

And  he ’s  away  to  Yarrow. 

29 


As  he  gaed  up  the  Tennies  bank, 

I wot  he  gaed  wi’  sorrow, 

Till,  down  in  a den,  he  spied  nine  armed 
men, 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow. 

“ O come  ye  here  to  part  your  land, 

The bonnie  Forest  thorough? 

Or  come  ye  here  to  wield  your  brand, 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow  ? ” — 

“ I come  not  here  to  part  my  land, 

And  neither  to  beg  nor  borrow ; 

I come  to  wield  my  noble  brand, 

On  the  bonnie  banks  of  Yarrow. 

“ If  I see  all,  ye  ’re  nine  to  ane ; 

And  that ’s  an  unequal  marrow : 

Yet  will  I fight,  while  lasts  my  brand, 

On  the  bonnie  banks  of  Yarrow.” 

Four  has  he  hurt,  and  five  has  slain, 

On  the  bloody  braes  of  Yarrow, 

Till  that  stubborn  knight  came  him  behind, 
And  ran  his  body  thorough. 

“ Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  good  brother  John, 
And  tell  your  sister  Sarah, 

To  come  and  lift  her  leafu’  lord ; 

He ’s  sleepin’  sound  on  Yarrow.” — 

“ Yestreen  I dreamed  a dolefu’  dream : 

I fear  there  will  be  sorrow ! 

I dreamed  I pu’d  the  heather  green, 

Wi’  my  true  love,  on  Yarrow. 

“ 0 gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south, 

From  where  my  love  repaireth, 

Convey  a kiss  from  his  dear  mouth, 

And  tell  me  how  he  fareth ! 

“ But  in  the  glen  strive  armed  men ; 

They ’ve  wrought  me  dole  and  sorrow ; 
They  ’ ve  slain — the  comeliest  knight  they  ’ ve 
slain — 

He  bleeding  lies  on  Yarrow.” 

As  she  sped  down  yon  high,  high  hill, 

She  gaed  wi’  dole  and  sorrow, 

And  in  the  den  spied  ten  slain  men, 

On  the  dowie  banks  of  Yarrow. 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


4:50 

She  kissed  his  cheeks,  she  kaimed  his  hair, 
She  searched  his  wounds  all  thorough ; 
She  kissed  them,  till  her  lips  grew  red, 

On  the  dowie  houms  of  Yarrow. 

“Now  haud  your  tongue,  my  daughter 
dear! 

For  a’  this  breeds  hut  sorrow ; 

I ’ll  wed  ye  to  a better  lord, 

Than  him  ye  lost  on  Yarrow.” — 

“ O haud  your  tongue,  my  father  dear ! 

Ye  mind  me  hut  of  sorrow ; 

A fairer  rose  did  never  bloom 
Than  now  lies  cropped  on  Yarrow.” 

Anonymous. 


THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW. 

“Bijsk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bride! 

Busk  ye,  husk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow ! 
Busk  ye,  husk  ye,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bride, 
And  think  nae  mair  of  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.” 

“ Where  got  ye  that  bonnie,  bonnie  bride, 
Where  got  ye  that  winsome  marrow  ? ” 

“ I got  her  where  I daurna  weel  he  seen, 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

“Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride, 

Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome  marrow! 
Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.” 

“Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride  ? 

Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome  marrow  ? 
And  why  daur  ye  nae  mair  weel  be  seen 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow  ? ” 

“ Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she,  maun 
she  weep — 

Lang  maun  she  weep  wi’  dule  and  sorrow; 
And  lang  maun  I nae  mair  weel  be  seen 
Pu’ing  the  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow. 


“For  she  has  tint  her  lover,  lover  dear — 

Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow ; 

And  I hae  slain  the  cornel  iest  swain 
That  e’er  pu’d  birks  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow 

“ Why  runs  thy  stream,  O,  Yarrow,  Yarrow, 
red? 

Why  on  thy  braes  heard  the  voice  of  sor- 
row? 

And  why  yon  melancholious  weeds 
Hung  on  the  bonnie  birks  of  Yarrow? 

“What’s  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful,  rueful 
flood? 

What ’s  yonder  floats  ? — O,  dule  and  sor- 
row! 

’T  is  he,  the  comely  swain  I slew 
Upon  the  dulefu’  Braes  of  Yarrow. 

“Wash,  O wash  his  wounds,  his  wounds  in 
tears, 

His  wounds  in  tears  o’  dule  and  sorrow ; 
And  wrap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weeds, 

And  lay  him  on  the  banks  of  Yarrow. 

“ Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters,  sisters  sad, 
Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  wi’  sorrow; 

And  weep  around,  in  waeful  wise, 

His  hapless  fate  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow ! 

“ Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless,  useless  shield, 
The  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sorrow, 
The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  his  breast, 

His  comely  breast,  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow ! 

tf  Did  I not  warn  thee  not  to,  not  to  love, 
And  warn  from  fight?  But,  to  my  sorrow, 
Too  rashly  bold,  a stronger  arm  thou  met’st, 
Thou  met’st,  and  fell  on  the  Braes  of  Yar- 
row. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk ; green  grows,  green 
grows  the  grass ; 

Yellow  on  Yarrow’s  braes  the  gowan; 

Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock ; 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowing! 

“Flows  Yarrow  sweet?  As  sweet,  as  sweet 
flows  Tweed; 

As  green  its  grass ; its  gowan  as  yellow ; 

As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk ; 

The  apple  from  its  rocks  as  mellow ! 


RARE  WILLIE  DROWNED  IN  YARROW.  451 


“Fair  was  thy  love ! fair,  fair  indeed  thy  love ! 

In  flowery  bands  thou  didst  him  fetter ; 
Though  he  was  fair,  and  well-beloved  again, 
Than  I he  never  loved  thee  better. 

“Busk  ye,  then,  busk,  my  bonnie,  bonnie 
bride ! 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow ! 
Busk  ye,  and  lo’e  me  on  the  banks  of  Tweed 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  Braes  of  Yar- 
row.” 

“How  can  I busk  a bonnie,  bonnie  bride? 

How  can  I busk  a winsome  marrow  ? 

How  can  I lo’e  him  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
That  slew  my  love  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow  ? 

“ O Yarrow  fields,  may  never,  never  rain, 
Nor  dew,  thy  tender  blossoms  cover ! 

For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love, 

My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a lover. 

“ The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of  green, 
His  purple  vest — ’t  was  my  ain  sewing ; 

Ah,  wretched  me ! I little,  little  kenned 
He  was,  in  these,  to  meet  his  ruin. 

“ The  boy  took  out  his  milk-white,  milk-white 
steed, 

Unmindful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow ; 

But  ere  the  too  fa’  of  the  night, 

He  lay  a corpse  on  the  banks  of  Yarrow ! 

* “ Much  I rejoiced  that  waefu’,  waefu’  day ; 

I sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning ; 

But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  flown 
That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourning. 

“ What  can  my  barbarous,  barbarous  father  do, 
But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me  ? 

My  lover’s  blood  is  on  thy  spear — 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then  woo 
me? 

‘ My  happy  sisters  may  be,  may  be  proud ; 

With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffing 
May  bid  me  seek,  on  Yarrow  Braes, 

My  lover  nailed  in  his  coffin. 

“ My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid, 

And  strive,  with  threatening  words,  to 
move  me ; 

My  lover’s  blood  is  on  thy  spear — 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 


“ Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed  of  love ! 

With  bridal-sheets  my  body  cover! 

Unbar,  ye  bridal-maids,  the  door ! 

Let  in  the  expected  husband-lover ! 

“ But  who  the  expected  husband,  husband  is  ? 
His  hands,  methinks,  are  bathed  in  slaugh 
ter! 

Ah  me ! what  ghastly  spectre ’s  yon 
Comes  in  his  pale  shroud,  bleeding  after  ? 

“ Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him,  lay  him  down ; 

Oh  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow ! 

Take  off,  take  off  these  bridal  weeds, 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

“Pale  though  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet  best  be- 
loved, 

Oh  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee ! 
Yet  lie  all  night  within  my  arms — 

No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee ! 

“Pale,  pale  indeed,  O lovely,  lovely  youth! 

Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a slaughter, 

And  lie  all  night  within  my  arms, 

No  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after!  ” 

“ Return,  return,  O mournful,  mournful 
bride ! 

Return,  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow ! 

Thy  lover  heeds  nought  of  thy  sighs ; 

He  lies  a corpse  on  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.” 
William  Hamilton. 


RARE  WILLY  DROWNED  IN  YARROW. 

“ Willy ’s  rare,  and  Willy ’s  fair, 

And  Willy’s  wond’rous  bonny ; 

And  Willy  heght  to  marry  me, 

Gin  e’er  he  married  ony. 

“ Yestreen  I made  my  bed  fu’  braid, 

This  night  I ’ll  make  it  narrow ; 

For  a’  the  livelang  winter  night 
I ly  twined  of  my  marrow. 

“ O came  you  by  yon  water-side  ? 

Pou’d  you  the  rose  or  lily  ? 

Or  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green  ? 

Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willy  ? ” 


452  POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


She  sought  him  east,  she  sought  him  west, 
She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow ; 
Syne  in  the  cleaving  of  a craig, 

She  found  him  drowned  in  Yarrow. 

Anonymous. 


SONG. 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream ! 

When  first  on  them  I met  my  lover ; 

Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream! 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover. 

For  ever  now,  O Yarrow  stream! 

Thou  art  to  me  a stream  of  sorrow ; 

For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 

Behold  my  love,  the  flower  of  Yarrow. 

He  promised  me  a milk-white  steed, 

To  bear  me  to  his  father’s  bowers ; 

He  promised  me  a little  page, 

To  ’squire  me  to  his  father’s  towers ; 

He  promised  me  a wedding-ring — 

The  wedding-day  was  fixed  to-morrow ; 
Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met ; 

My  passion  I as  freely  told  him ! 

Clasped  in  his  arms,  I little  thought 
That  I should  never  more  behold  him ! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  I saw  his  ghost ; 

It  vanished  with  a shriek  of  sorrow ; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 

And  gave  a doleful  groan  thro’  Yarrow. 

His  mother  from  the  window  looked, 

"With  all  the  longing  of  a mother ; 

His  little  sister  weeping  walked 

The  green-wood  path  to  meet  her  brother. 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west, 
They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough  ; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 

They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow ! 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look, 

Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid ; 

Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a brother ! 


No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west, 

And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough , 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 

He  fell  a lifeless  corse  in  Yarrow. 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek, 

No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow  ; 

I ’ll  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 

And  then  with  thee  I ’ll  sleep  in  Yarrow. 

John  Logan. 


THE  CRUEL  SISTER. 

These  were  two  sisters  sat  in  a hour, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie; 

There  came  a knight  to  be  their  wooer ; 

By  the  'bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  glove  and  ring, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

But  he  lo’ed  the  youngest  abune  a’  thing ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  courted  the  eldest  with  broach  and  knife, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

But  he  lo’ed  the  youngest  abune  his  life ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  she  was  vexed  sair, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

And  sore  envied  her  sister  fair ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  eldest  said  to  the  youngest  ane, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie — 

“ Will  ye  go  and  see  our  father’s  ships  come 
in?’’ 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie* 

She ’s  ta’en  her  by  the  lily  hand, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie — 

And  led  her  down  to  the  river  strand ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  youngest  stude  upon  a stane, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

The  eldest  came  and  pushed  her  in ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 


THE  CRUEL  SISTER. 


She  took  her  by  the  middle  sma’, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

And  dashed  her  bonny  hack  to  the  jaw  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ 0 sister,  sister,  reach  your  hand, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

And  ye  shall  he  heir  of  half  my  land.” — 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ 0 sister,  I’ll  not  reach  my  hand, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

And  I ’ll  he  heir  of  all  your  land ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ Shame  fa’  the  hand  that  I should  take, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie : 

It’s  twined  me  and  my  world’s  make.” — 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ O sister,  reach  me  but  your  glove, 

Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

And  sweet  William  shall  he  your  love.” — 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ Sink  on,  nor  hope  for  hand  or  glove ! 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

And  sweet  William  shall  better  he  my  love, 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ Your  cherry  cheeks  and  your  yellow  hair, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

Garred  me  gang  maiden  evermair.” 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

Sometimes  she  sunk,  and  sometimes  she  swam, 
Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

Until  she  cam  to  the  miller’s  dam  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ 0 father,  father,  draw  your  dam ! 

Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

There’s  either  a mermaid,  or  a milk-white 
swan.” 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  miller  hasted  and  drew  his  dam, 
Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

And  there  he  found  a drowned  woman  ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 


453 


You  could  not  see  her  yellow  hair, 

Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

For  gowd  and  pearls  that  were  so  rare ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

You  could  not  see  her  middle  sma’, 
Binnorie,  0 Binnorie ; 

Her  gowden  girdle  was  sae  bra’ ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

A famous  harper  passing  by, 

Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

The  sweet  pale  face  he  chanced  to  spy ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

And  when  he  looked  that  lady  on, 

Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

He  sighed  and  made  a heavy  moan ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  made  a harp  of  her  breast-hone, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie  ; 

Whose  sounds  would  melt  a heart  of  stone ; 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

The  strings  he  framed  of  her  yellow  hair, 
Binnorie , 0 Binnorie — 

Whose  notes  made  sad  the  listening  ear ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  brought  it  to  her  father’s  hall, 

Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

And  there  was  the  court  assembled  all ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

He  laid  his  harp  upon  a stone, 

Binnorie,  0 Binnorie ; 

And  straight  it  began  to  play  alone ; 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“ 0 yonder  sits  my  father,  the  king, 
Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

And  yonder  sits  my  mother,  the  queen ; ” 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

“And  yonder  stands  my  brother  Hugh, 
Binnorie,  0 Binnorie ; 

And  by  him  my  William,  sweet  and  true.” 
By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

But  the  last  tune  that  the  harp  played  then, 
Binnorie,  0 Binnorie  ; 

Was — “Woe  to  my  sister,  false  Helen!” 

By  the  bonny  milldams  of  Binnorie. 

Anonymous. 


454  POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  # 

LORD  RANDAL. 

EDWARD,  EDWARD. 

“ 0 whebe  hae  ye  been,  Lord  Randal,  my 
son? 

0 where  hae  ye  been,  my  handsome  yonng 
man?  ” 

“I  hae  been  to  the  wild  wood;  mother, 
make  my  bed  soon, 

For  I ’m  weary  wi’  hunting,  and  fain  waldlie 
down.” 

“ Quhy  dois  zour  brand  sae  drop  wi’  bluid, 
Edward,  Edward 

Quhy  dois  zour  brand  sae  drop  wi’  bluid, 
And  quhy  sae  sad  gang  zee  0 ? ” 
“01  hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid, 

Mither,  mither: 

0 I hae  killed  my  hauke  sae  guid, 

And  I had  nae  mair  bot  hee  0.” 

“ Where  gat  ye  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal, 
my  son? 

Where  gat  ye  yonr  dinner,  my  handsome 
yonng  man  ? ” 

“I  dined  wi’  my  true-love;  mother,  make 
my  bed  soon, 

For  I ’m  weary  wi’  hunting,  and  fain  waldlie 
down.” 

“ Zour  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid, 

Edward,  Edward. 

Zour  haukis  bluid  was  nevir  sae  reid — 

My  deir  son,  I tell  thee  0.” 

“01  hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 

Mither,  mither : 

0 I hae  killed  my  reid-roan  steid, 

That  erst  was  sae  fair  and  free  0.” 

“ What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  Lord  Randal, 
my  son  ? 

What  gat  ye  to  your  dinner,  my  handsome 
young  man  ? ” 

“ I gat  eels  boiled  in  broo ; mother,  make  my 
bed  soon, 

For  I ’m  weary  wi’  hunting,  and  fain  waldlie 
down.” 

“ Zour  steid  was  auld,  and  ze  hae  gat  mair, 
Edward,  Edward: 

Zour  steid  was  auld,  and  ze  hae  gat  mair — 
Sum  other  dule  ze  drie  0.” 

“01  hae  killed  my  fader  deir, 

Mither,  mither: 

0 I hae  killed  my  fader  deir — 

Alas ! and  wae  is  mee  0 ! ” 

“What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  Lord 
Randal,  my  son  ? 

What  became  of  your  bloodhounds,  my  hand- 
some young  man  ? ” 

“0  they  swelled  and  they  died;  mother, 
make  my  bed  soon, 

For  I’m  weary  wi’  hunting,  and  fain  waldlie 
down.” 

“ And  quhatten  penance  wul  ze  drie  for  that, 
Edward,  Edward? 
And  quhatten  penance  wul  ze  drie  for  that  ? 

My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  0.” 

“ Re  set  my  feit  in  zonder  boat, 

Mither,  mither : 

He  set  my  feit  in  zonder  boat, 

And  Re  fare  ovir  the  sea  0.” 

“01  fear  ye  are  poisoned,  Lord  Randal,  my 
son! 

0 I fear  ye  are  poisoned,  my  handsome  young 
man ! ” 

“ 0 yes ! I am  poisoned ; mother,  make  my 
bed  soon, 

For  I ’m  sick  at  the  heart,  and  I fain  wad  lie 
down.” 

AK0NTM0f8. 

“ And  quhat  wul  ze  doe  wi’  zour  towirs  and 
zour  ha’, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  quhat  wul  ze  doe  wi’  zour  towirs  and 
zour  ha’, 

That  were  sae  fair  to  see  0 ? ” 

“ Re  let  thame  stand  til  they  doun  fa’, 

Mither,  mither: 

Re  let  thame  stand  til  they  doun  fa’, 

For  here  nevir  mair  maun  I bee  0.” 

THE  TWA  BROTHERS. 


455 


“ And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  bairns  and 
zour  wife, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  bairns  and 
zour  wife, 

Qufran  ze  gang  ovir  the  sea  O ? ” 

“ The  warldis  room — late  them  beg  throw  life, 
Hither,  mither: 

The  warldis  room — late  them  beg  throw  life, 
For  thame  nevir  mail*  wul  I see  0.” 

“ And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  ain  mither 
deir, 

Edward,  Edward? 
And  quhat  wul  ze  leive  to  zour  ain  mither 
deir? 

My  deir  son,  now  tell  me  O.” 

“ The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ze  beir, 

Mither,  mither : 

The  curse  of  hell  frae  me  sail  ze  beir — 

Sic  counseils  ze  gave  to  me  0.” 

Anonymous. 


THE  TWA  BROTHERS. 

There  were  twa  brothers  at  the  scule, 

And  when  they  got  awa’, — 

“ It ’s  will  ye  play  at  the  stane-chucking, 

Or  will  ye  play  at  the  ba’  ? 

Or  will  ye  gae  up  to  yon  hill  head, 

And  there  we  ’ll  warsel  a fa’  ? ” 

“ I winna  play  at  the  stane-chucking, 

Nor  will  I play  at  the  ba’ ; 

But  I ’ll  gae  up  to  yon  bonnie  green  hill, 

And  there  we  ’ll  warsel  a fa’  ? ” 

They  warsled  up,  they  warsled  down, 

Till  John  fell  to  the  ground ; 

A dirk  fell  out  of  William’s  pouch, 

And  gave  John  a deadly  wound. 

“ O lift  me  upon  your  back — 

Tak  me  to  yon  well  fair; 

And  wash  my  bluidy  wounds  o’er  and  o’er, 
And  they  ’ll  ne’er  bleed  nae  mair.” 

He ’s  lifted  his  brother  upon  his  back, 

Ta’en  him  to  yon  well  fair ; 

He ’s  washed  his  bluidy  wounds  o’er  and  o’er, 
But  they  bleed  ay  mair  and  mair. 


“ Tak  ye  aff  my  Holland  sark, 

And  rive  it  gair  by  gair, 

And  row  it  in  my  bluidy  wounds, 

And  they  ’ll  ne’er  bleed  nae  mair.” 

He ’s  taken  aff  his  Holland  sark, 

And  torn  it  gair  by  gair  ; 

He ’s  rowit  it  in  his  bluidy  wounds, 

But  they  bleed  ay  mair  and  mair. 

“ Tak  now  aff  my  green  cleiding, 

And  row  me  saftly  in ; 

And  tak  me  up  to  yon  kirk  style, 

Whare  the  grass  grows  fair  and  green.” 

He ’s  taken  aff  the  green  cleiding, 

And  rowed  him  saftly  in ; 

He ’s  laid  him  down  by  yon  kirk  style, 
Whare  the  grass  grows  fair  and  green. 

“What  will  ye  say  to  your  father  dear, 
When  ye  gae  hame  at  e’en  ? ” 

“ I ’ll  say  ye  ’re  lying  at  yon  kirk  style, 
Whare  the  grass  grows  fair  and  green.” 

“ 0 no,  0 no,  my  brother  dear, 

0 you  must  not  say  so ; 

But  say  that  I ’m  gane  to  a foreign  land, 
Where  nae  man  does  me  know.” 

When  he  sat  in  his  father’s  chair, 

He  grew  baith  pale  and  wan : 

“O  what  blude ’s  that  upon  your  brow? 

O dear  son,  tell  to  me.” 

“ It  is  the  blude  o’  my  gude  gray  steed — 
He  wadna  ride  wi’  me.” 

“ O thy  steed’s  blude  was  ne’er  sae  red, 
Nor  e’er  sae  dear  to  me. 

0 what  blude ’s  this  upon  your  cheek  ? 

0 dear  son,  tell  to  me.” 

“ It  is  the  blude  of  my  greyhound — 

He  wadna  hunt  for  me.” 

“ 0 thy  hound's  blude  was  ne’er  sae  red, 
Nor  e’er  sae  dear  to  me. 

0 what  blude ’s  this  upon  your  hand  ? 

O dear  son,  tell  to  me.” 

“ It  is  the  blude  of  my  gay  goss  hawk — 
He  wadna  flee  for  me.” 


456 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


“ 0 thy  hawk’s  blude  was  ne’er  sae  red, 
Nor  e’er  sae  dear  to  me. 

O what  blude ’s  this  upon  your  dirk  ? 

Dear  Willie,  tell  to  me.” 

“ It  is  the  blude  of  my  ae  brother, 

O dule  and  wae  is  me ! ” 

“O  what  will  ye  say  to  your  father? 

Dear  Willie,  tell  to  me.” 

“ I ’ll  saddle  my  steed,  and  awa’  I ’ll  ride 
To  dwell  in  some  far  countrie.” 

“ O when  will  ye  come  hame  again  ? 

Dear  Willie,  tell  to  me.” 

“ When  sun  and  mune  leap  on  yon  hill — 
And  that  will  never  be.” 

She  turned  hersel’  right  round  about, 

And  her  heart  burst  into  three : 

“ My  ae  best  son  is  deid  and  gane, 

And  my  tother  ane  I ’ll  ne’er  see.” 

Anonymous. 


THE  TWA  CORBIES. 

As  I gaed  doun  by  yon  house-en’ 

Twa  corbies  there  were  sittan  their  lane : 
The  tane  unto  the  tother  sae, 

“O  where  shall  we  gae  dine  to-day?” 

“ 0 down  beside  yon  new-faun  birk 
There  lies  a new-slain  knicht ; 

Nae  livin  kens  that  he  lies  there, 

But  his  horse,  his  hounds,  and  his  lady  fair. 

“ His  horse  is  to  the  huntin  gane, 

His  hounds  to  bring  the  wild  deer  hame ; 
His  lady ’s  taen  another  mate ; 

Sae  we  may  make  our  dinner  swate. 

“ 0 we  ’ll  sit  on  his  bonnie  briest-bane, 
And  we  ’ll  pyke  out  his  bonnie  grey  een ; 
Wi  ae  lock  o’  his  gowden  hair 
We  ’ll  theek  our  nest  when  it  blaws  bare. 

“ Mony  a ane  for  him  maks  mane, 

But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane ; 

Ower  his  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 

The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair ! ” 

Anonymous. 


BONNIE  GEORGE  CAMPBELL. 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 

Bonnie  George  Campbell 
Rade  out  on  a day. 

Saddled  and  bridled 
And  gallant  rade  he ; 

Hame  cam  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  cam  he ! 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither, 

Greeting  fu’  sair ; 

And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride, 
Rivin’  her  hair. 

Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he ; 

Toom  hame  came  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he ! 

“ My  meadow  lies  green, 

And  my  corn  is  unshorn ; 

My  barn  is  to  big, 

And  my  baby ’s  unborn.” 

Saddled  and  bridled 
And  booted  rade  he ; 

Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he ! 

Anonymous. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  BORDER  WIDOW- 

My  love  he  built  me  a bonny  bower, 

And  clad  it  a’  wi’  lilye  flour ; 

A brawer  bower  ye  ne’er  did  see 
Than  my  true  love  he  built  for  me. 

There  came  a man,  by  middle  day ; 

He  spied  his  sport,  and  went  away  ; 

And  brought  the  king  that  very  night, 
Who  brake  my  bower,  and  slew  my  knight. 

He  slew  my  knight,  to  me  sae  dear ; 

He  slew  my  knight,  and  poin’d  his  gear ; 
My  servants  all  for  life  did  flee, 

And  left  me  in  extremitie. 


SONG.  457 

I sewed  his  sheet,  making  my  mane ; 

0 that  I were  where  Helen  lies ! 

I watched  the  corpse,  myself  alane ; 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 

I watched  his  body,  night  and  day ; 

Cfut  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise — 

No  living  creature  came  that  way. 

Says,  “ Haste  and  come  to  me ! ” 

I tuk  his  body  on  my  hack, 

0 Helen  fair ! 0 Helen  chaste ! 

And  whiles  I gaed,  and  whiles  I sat ; 

If  I were  with  thee  I were  blest, 

I digged  a grave,  and  laid  him  in, 

Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest, 

And  happed  him  with  the  sod  sae  green. 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

But  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 

I wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 

When  I laid  the  moul’  on  his  yellow  hair  ? 

A winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 

0 think  na  ye  my  heart  was  wae, 

And  I in  Helen’s  arms  lying, 

When  I turned  about,  away  to  gae  ? 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

Nae  living  man  I ’ll  love  again, 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Since  that  my  lovely  knight  is  slain ; 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

Wi’  ae  lock  of  his  yellow  hair 

And  I am  weary  of  the  skies, 

I ’ll  chain  my  heart  for  evermair. 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

Anonymous. 

Anonymous. 

FAIR  HELEN. 

SONG. 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies ; 

“ 0 Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries. 

And  call  the  cattle  home, 

0 that  I were  where  Helen  lies, 

And  call  the  cattle  home, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee ! 

Across  the  sands  o’  Dee ! ” 

Curst  he  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi’  foam. 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 

When  in  my  arms  hurd  Helen  dropt, 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 

And  died  to  succour  me ! 

And  o’er  and  o’er  the  sand, 

Oh  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 

And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see ; 

When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair  ? 

The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 

There  did  she  swoon  wi’  meikle  care, 

And  never  home  came  she. 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

As  I went  down  the  water  side, 

“ 0 is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A tress  o’  golden  hair, 

None  hut  my  foe  to  he  my  guide — 

O’  drowned  maiden’s  hair — 

None  hut  my  foe  to  he  my  guide, 

Above  the  nets  *at  sea  ? 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee — 

Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 

Among  the  stakes  on  Dee.” 

I lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw  ; 

I hacked  him  in  pieces  sma’ — 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam — 

I hacked  him  in  pieces  sma’, 

The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

The  cruel,  hungry  foam — 

0 Helen  fair,  beyond  compare, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea ; 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle 

I ’ll  make  a garland  of  thy  hair, 

home 

Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 

Across  the  sands  o’  Dee. 

Until  the  day  I die ! 

Charles  Kingsley. 

458 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 

AN  EPISODE. 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the  east, 
And  the  fog  rose  ont  of  the  Oxus  stream ; 

But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 
Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged 
in  sleep. 

Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not ; all  night  along 
He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed ; 

But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his  tent, 
He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his  sword, 
And  took  his  horseman’s  cloak,  and  left  his 
tent, 

And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog, 
Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa’s  tent. 

Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  passed, 
which  stood 

Clustering  like  bee-hives,  on  the  low  flat 
strand 

Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer  floods  o’erflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pa- 
mere  : 

Through  the  black  tents  he  passed,  o’er  that 
low  strand, 

And  to  a hillock  came,  a little  hack 
From  the  stream’s  brink,  the  spot  where  first 
a boat, 

Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the 
land. 

The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned  the 
top 

With  a clay  fort.  But  that  was  fallen ; and 
now 

The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa’s  tent, 

A dome  of  laths ; and  o’er  it  felts  were 
spread. 

And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and 
stood 

Upon  the  thick-piled  carpets  in  the  tent, 

And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 
Of  rugs  and  felts  ; and  near  him  lay  his  arms. 
And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the  step 
Was  dulled ; for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man’s 
sleep ; 

And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said : 
“Who  art  thou?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear 
dawn. 

Speak ! is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm  ? ” 


But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said 
“ Thou  know’st  me,  Peran-Wisa ; it  is  I. 

The  sun  is  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep  ; but  I sleep  not.  All  night  long  I lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful ; and  I come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 

In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched ; 
And  I will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  knowest  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan  first 
I came  among  the  Tartars,  and  bore  arms, 

I have  still  served  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown, 
At  my  boy’s  years,  the  courage  of  a man. 
This,  too,  thou  know’st,  that  while  I still 
bear  on 

The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the 
world, 

And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 

I seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone. 
Rustum,  my  father;  who,  I hoped,  should 
greet, 

Should  one  day  greet  upon  some  well-fought 
field 

His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 

So  I long  hoped,  but  him  I never  find. 

Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I 
ask. 

Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day ; but  I 
Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 
To  meet  me,  man  to  man.  If  I prevail, 
Rustum  will  surely  hear  it ; if  I fall — 

Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 
Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a common  fight, 

Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are 
sunk ; 

But  of  a single  combat  Fame  speaks  clear.” 
He  spoke  : and  Peran-Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sighed,  and 
said : 

“ O Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine  ! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle’s  common  chance  with 
us 

Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  for  ever  first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 

To  find  a father  thou  hast  never  seen  ? 

That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with  us 
Unmurmuring — in  our  tents,  while  it  is  war ; 
And  when  ’t  is  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab’s 
towns. 

But,  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all, 


j 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 


459 


To  seek  out  Rustum — seek  him  not  through 
fight; 

Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms — 

O Sohrab,  carry  an  un wounded  son ! 

But  far  hence  seek  him ; for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I was  young, 

When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray  ; 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 

In  Siestan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old ; 

Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at  last 
Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age ; 

Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  King. 
There  go; — Thou  wilt  not?  yet  my  heart 
forebodes 

Danger  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 
Fain  would  I know  thee  safe  and  well,  though 
lost 

To  us — fain  therefore  send  thee  hence,  in 
peace 

To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain.  But  who  can  keep  the  lion’s  cub 
From  ravening?  and  who  govern  Rustum’s 
son? 

Go ! I will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  desires.” 
So  said  he,  and  dropped  Sohrab’s  hand,  and 
left 

His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay ; 
And  o’er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a white  cloak  round  him ; and  he 
took 

In  his  right  hand  a ruler’s  staff,  no  sword ; 
And  on  his  head  he  placed  his  sheep-skin 
cap — 

Black,  glossy,  curled,  the  fleece  of  Kara-Kul ; 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  called 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 

The  sun,  by  this,  had  risen,  and  cleared  the 
fog 

From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering 
sands ; 

And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen  filed 
Into  the  open  plain : so  Haman  bade — 
Haman,  who,  next  to  Peran-Wisa,  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 
From  their  black  tents,  long  files  of  horse, 
they  streamed : 

As  when,  some  grey  November  morn,  the 
files, 

In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-necked 
cranes, 


Stream  over  Casbin,  and  the  southern  slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries, 

Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed — southward 
bound 

For  the  warm  Persian  sea-board:  so  they 
streamed — 

The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  King’s  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps,  and  with 
long  spears ; 

Large  men,  large  steeds ; who  from  Bokhara 
come, 

And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares. 
Next  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of  the 
south, 

The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 

And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian 
sands — 

Light  men,  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only 
drink 

The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 
And  then  a swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who 
came 

From  far,  and  a more  doubtful  service 
owned — 

The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 
Of  the  Jaxartes — men  with  scanty  beards 
And  close-set  skull-caps;  and  those  wilder 
hordes 

Who  roam  o’er  Kipchak  and  the  northern 
waste, 

Kalmuks  and  unkemped  Kuzzaks,  tribes  who 
stray 

Nearest  the  Pole ; and  wandering  Kirghizes, 
Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamere. 
These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the  plain. 
And  on  the  other  side  the  Persians  formed  : 
First  a light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they 
seemed, 

The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan ; and  behind, 

The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 
Marshalled  battalions  bright  in  burnished 
steel. 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came 
Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front, 
And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost 
ranks. 

And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians,  saw 
That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 

Ho  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came 
And  checked  his  ranks,  and  fixed  them  where 
they  stood. 


460 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and 
said : — 

“Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars, 
hear! 

Let  there  he  truce  between  the  hosts  to-day. 
But  choose  a champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  our  champion,  Sohrab,  man  to  man.” 

As,  in  the  country,  on  a morn  in  Jane, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearled  ears, 

A shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for  joy — 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons  ran, 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they 
loved. 

But  as  a troop  of  pedlars,  from  Cabool, 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 

That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of  milk 
snow, 

Winding  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they 
pass 

Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds  dead  on  the 
snow, 

Choked  by  the  air;  and  scarce  can  they 
themselves 

Slake  their  parched  throats  with  sugared 
mulberries — 

In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their  breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o’erhanging 
snows — 

So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with 
fear. 

And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came  up 
To  counsel.  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came ; 

And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  King ; 
These  came  and  counselled ; and  then  Gudurz 
said : — 

“Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  chal- 
lenge up, 

Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this 
youth ; 

He  has  the  wild  stag’s  foot,  the  lion’s  heart. 
But  Rustum  came  last  night ; aloof  he  sits, 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitched  his  tents  apart : 
Him  will  I seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear 
The  Tartar  challenge,  and  this  young  man’s 
name. 

Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  chal- 
lenge np.” 


So  spake  he ; and  Ferood  stood  forth  and 
said : — 

“ Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said. 

Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a man.” 

He  spoke ; and  Peran-Wisa  turned,  and  strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his 
tent. 

But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz  ran, 
And  crossed  the  camp  which  lay  behind,  and 
reached, 

Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum’s  tents. 
Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering  gay, 
Just  pitched.  The  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 
Was  Rustum’s ; and  his  men  lay  camped 
around. 

And  Gudurz  entered  Rustum’s  tent,  and  found 
Rustum.  His  morning  meal  was  done ; but 
still 

The  table  stood  beside  him,  charged  with 
food — 

A side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread, 
And  dark  green  melons.  And  there  Rustum 
sate 

Listless,  and  held  a falcon  on  his  wrist, 

And  played  with  it ; but  Gudurz  came  and 
stood 

Before  him ; and  he  looked  and  saw  him 
stand ; 

And  with  a cry  sprang  up,  and  dropped  the 
bird, 

And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and 
said : — 

“Welcome ! these  eyes  could  see  no  better 
sight. 

What  news  ? But  sit  down  first,  and  eat  and 
drink.” 

But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent  door,  and 
said : — 

“Not  now.  A time  will  come  to  eat  and 
drink, 

But  not  to-day : to-day  has  other  needs. 

The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at  gaze ; 
For  from  the  Tartars  is  a challenge  brought 
To  pick  a champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion — and  thou  know’st 
his  name — 

Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 

0 Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young 
man’s ! 

He  has  the  wild  stag’s  foot,  the  lion’s  heart. 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran’s  chiefs  are  old, 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 


461 


Or  else  too  weak ; and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we  lose.” 

He  spoke.  But  Rustum  answered  with  a 
smile : — 

“ Go  to ! if  Iran’s  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older.  If  the  young  are  weak,  the  King 
Errs  strangely ; for  the  King,  for  Kai  Khos- 
roo, 

Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger  men, 
And  lets  the  aged  moulder  to  their  graves. 
Rustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the 
young— 

The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab’s  vaunts,  not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab’s 
fame? 

For  would  that  I myself  had  such  a son, 

And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I have — 
A son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 
And  I to  tarry  with  the  snow-haired  Zal, 

My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex, 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his 
herds; 

And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I go,  and  hang  my  armor  up, 
And  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak  old 
man, 

And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I have  got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab’s  fame, 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless 
kings, 

And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw 
sword  no  more.” 

He  spoke,  and  smiled;  and  Gudurz  made 
reply  :— 

“What  then,  O Rustum,  will  men  say  to 
this, 

When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and 
seeks 

Thee  most  of  all ; and  thou,  whom  most  he 
seeks, 

Hidest  thy  face  ? Take  heed,  lest  men  should 
say, 

Like  some  old  miser  Rustum  hoards  his  fame , 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men.” 

And,  greatly  moved,  then  Rustum  made 
reply : — 

“ 0 Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such 
words  ? 

Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to  say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or  famed, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 


Are  not  they  mortal  ? Am  not  I myself? 
But  who  for  men  of  nought  would  do  great 
deeds  ? 

Come,  thou  shalt  see  how  Rustum  hoards  his 
fame. 

But  I will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain  arms  ; 
Let  not  men  say  of  Rustum,  he  was  matched 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man.” 

He  spoke,  and  frowned ; and  Gudurz  turned, 
and  ran 

Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and 

joy— 

Fear  at  his  wrath,  hut  joy  that  Rustum  came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent  door,  and 
called 

His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his 
arms, 

And  clad  himself  in  steel.  The  arms  he 
chose 

Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  device; 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold ; 
And  from  the  fluted  spine,  atop,  a plume 
Of  horse-hair  waved,  a scarlet  horse-hair 
plume. 

So  armed,  he  issued  forth;  and  Ruksh,  his 
horse, 

Followed  him,  like  a faithful  hound,  at 
heel — 

Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  noised  through 
all  the  earth— 

The  horse,  whom  Rustum  on  a foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find, 

A colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove  him  home, 
And  reared  him;  a bright  bay,  with  lofty 
crest, 

Dight  with  a saddle-cloth  of  broidered  green 
Crusted  with  gold ; and  on  the  ground  were 
worked 

All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters 
know. 

So  followed,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and  crossed 
The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  appeared. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with 
shouts 

Hailed:  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he 
was. 

And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife,  who  waits  and  weeps  on 
shore, 

By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf — 
Plunging  all  day  in  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 


462 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands — 

So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  advanced: 
And  Sohrab  armed  in  Haman’s  tent,  and 
came. 

And  as  a-field  the  reapers  cut  a swathe 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a rich  man’s 
corn, 

And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing 
corn, 

And  in  the  midst  a stubble,  short  and  bare : 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with 
spears 

Bristling;  and  in  the  midst,  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  towards  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he 
came. 

As  some  rich  woman,  on  a winter’s  morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor 
drudge 

Who  with  numb-blackened  fingers  makes  her 
fire — 

At  cock-crow,  on  a starlit  winter’s  morn, 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whitened  window 
panes — 

And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the 
thoughts 

Of  that  poor  drudge  may  he:  so  Rustum 
eyed 

The  unknown  adventurous  youth,  who  from 
afar 

Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs.  Long  he  perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seemed,  tenderly  reared; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall,  and  dark,  and 
straight, 

Which  in  a queen’s  secluded  garden  throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf, 
By  midnight,  to  a bubbling  fountain’s  sound — 
So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a deep  pity  entered  Rustum’s  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming ; and  he  stood, 
And  beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  and 
said: 

“ 0,  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  Heaven  is 
soft, 

And  warm,  and  pleasant;  but  the  grave  is 
cold. 


Heaven’s  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead 
grave. 

Behold  me : I am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron, 

And  tried ; and  I have  stood  on  many  a field 
Of  blood,  and  I have  fought  with  many  a 
foe; 

Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  saved. 

0 Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on  death? 
Be  governed : quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me, 

And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I die. 

There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou.” 

So  he  spake,  mildly.  Sohrab  heard  his 
voice, 

The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum ; and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand — 

Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a chief 
Has  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
Against  the  robbers ; and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streaked  with  its  first  gray  hairs.  Hope  filled 
his  soul ; 

And  he  ran  forward  and  embraced  his  knees, 
And  clasped  his  hand  within  his  own  and 
said : — 

“ O,  by  thy  father’s  head ! by  thine  own 
soul! 

Art  thou  not  Rustum  ? Speak ! art  thou  not 
he?” 

But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling 
youth, 

And  turned  away,  and  spoke  to  his  own  soul ; 

“ Ah  me1- 1 muse  what  this  young  fox  may 
mean. 

False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I now  confess  this  thing  he  asks, 

And  hide  it  not,  but  say — Rustum  is  here — 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes, 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous 
gifts— 

A belt  or  sword  perhaps — and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a feast  day,  in  Afrasiab’s  hall, 

In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry — 

‘I  challenged  once,  when  the  two  armies 
camped 

Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 
To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight ; but  they 
Shrank  ; only  Rustum  dared.  Then  he  and  I 
Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms 
away.’ 

So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  applaud 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 


463 


Then  were  the  chiefs  of  Iran  shamed  through 
me.” 

And  then  he  turned,  and  sternly  spake 
aloud : 

“ Rise ! Wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  ques- 
tion thus 

Of  Rustum?  I am  here,  whom  thou  hast 
called 

By  challenge  forth.  Make  good  thy  vaunt, 
or  yield. 

Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight  ? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  on  Rustum’s  face  and  flee. 
For  well  I know,  that  did  great  Rustum 
stand 

Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  revealed, 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting 
more. 

But  being  what  I am,  I tell  thee  this — 

Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul — 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt,  and 
yield ; 

Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till 
winds 

Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer  floods, 
Oxus  in  summer,  wash  them  all  away.” 

He  spoke;  and  Sohrab  answered,  on  his 
feet: 

“ Art  thou  so  fierce  ? Thou  wilt  not  fright 
me  so. 

I am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 

Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well : did  Rustum 
stand 

Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting 
then. 

But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand  here. 
Begin!  Thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread, 
than  I ; 

And  thou  art  proved,  I know,  and  I am 
young— 

But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of 
Heaven. 

And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  knowest 
sure 

Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a huge  wave  of  Fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to 
fall; 

And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 

Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea — 

Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death — 


We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us 
know ; 

Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour.” 

He  spake ; and  Rustum  answered  not,  but 
hurled 

His  spear.  Down  from  the  shoulder,  down 
it  came — 

As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn,  a hawk, 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds, 
Drops  like  a plummet.  Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a flash.  The  spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the 
sand, 

Which  it  sent  flying  wide.  Then  Sohrab 
threw 

In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum’s  shield. 
Sharp  rang, 

The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned  the 
spear. 

And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none  but 
he 

Could  wield — an  unlapped  trunk  it  was,  and 
huge, 

Still  rough ; like  those  which  men,  in  tree- 
less plains, 

To  build  them  boats,  fish  from  the  flooded 
rivers, 

Hyp'hasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter- 
time 

Has  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack, 

And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs — 
so  huge 

The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and 
struck 

One  stroke  ; but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside, 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club 
came 

Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rus- 
tum’s hand. 

And  Rustum  followed  his  own  blow,  and  fell 
To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched 
the  sand. 

And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed  his 
sword, 

And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he 
lay 

Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with 
sand ; 

But  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared  his 
sword ; 


464 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and 
said: 

“ Thou  strik  ’st  too  hard ; that  club  of  thine 
will  float 

Upon  the  summer  floods,  and  not  my  bones. 

But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth ; not  wroth  am  I. 

No,  when  I see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my 
soul. 

Thou  sayest  thou  art  not  Rustum ; be  it  so. 

Who  art  thou  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my 
soul? 

Boy  as  I am,  I have  seen  battles  too ; 

Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves, 

And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men ; 

But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touched  before. 

Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings  of 
the  heart? 

O thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven ! 

Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry 
spears, 

And  make  a truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 

And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like 
friends ; 

And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum’s  deeds. 

There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host 

Whom  I may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no 
pang; 

Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 

Hay’st  fight : fight  them,  when  they  confront 
thy  spear. 

But  0,  let  there  be  peace  ’twixt  thee  and 
me!” 

He  ceased.  But  while  he  spake,  Rustum 
had  risen, 

And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage.  His 
club 

He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear, 

Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right 
hand 

Blazed  bright  and  baleful — like  that  autumn 
star, 

The  baleful  sign  of  fevers.  Dust  had  soiled 

His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glittering 
arms. 

His  breast  heaved;  his  lips  foamed;  and 
twice  his  voice 

Was  choked  with  rage.  At  last  these  words 
broke  way : — 

“ Girl ! nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy 
hands ! 

Curled  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words! 


Fight ! let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no 
more ! 

Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab’s  gardens  now 
With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont 
to  dance ; 

But  on  the  Oxus  sands,  and  in  the  dance 
Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 
Of  war.  I fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 
Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and 
wine! 

Remember  all  thy  valor ; try  thy  feints 
And  cunning ; all  the  pity  I had  is  gone  ; 
Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both  the 
hosts, 

With  thy  light  skipping  tricks,  and  thy  girl’s 
wiles.” 

He  spoke ; and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his 
taunts, 

And  he  too  drew  his  sword.  At  once  they 
rushed 

Together ; as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west.  Their 
shields 

Dashed  with  a clang  together ; and  a din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest’s  heart  at  morn, 

Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees ; such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took 
part 

In  that  unnatural  conflict ; for  a cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  Heaven,  and  darkened  the 
sun 

Over  the  fighters’  heads ; and  a wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the 
plain, 

And  in  a sandy  whirlwind  wrapped  the  pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and  they 
alone ; 

For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure, 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  bloodshot 
eyes 

And  laboring  breath.  First  Rustum  struck 
the  shield 

Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out.  The  steel-spiked 
spear 

Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  failed  to  reach  the 
skin; 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 


465 


And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry 
groan. 

Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum ’s 
helm, 

Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through ; but  all  the 
crest 

He  shore  away;  and  that  proud  horsehair 
plume, 

Never  till  now  defiled,  sunk  to  the  dust ; 

And  Rustum  bowed  his  head.  But  then  the 
gloom 

Grew  blacker ; thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 

And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud ; and  Ruksh, 
the  horse, 

Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a dreadful  cry. 

No  horse’s  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 

Of  some  pained  desert  lion,  who  all  day 

Has  trailed  the  hunter’s  javelin  in  his  side, 

And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand. 

The  two  hosts  heard  the  cry,  and  quaked  for 
fear; 

And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 

But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not — but 
rushed  on, 

And  struck  again ; and  again  Rustum  bowed 

His  head.  But  this  time  all  the  blade,  like 
glass, 

Sprang  in  a thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 

And  in  his  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 

Then  Rustum  raised  his  head ; his  dreadful 
eyes 

Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing 
spear,  * 

And  shouted  “ Rustum ! ” Sohrab  heard  that 
shout, 

And  shrank  amazed;  back  he  recoiled  one 
step, 

And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  advanc- 
ing form ; 

And  then  he  stood  bewildered ; and  he 
dropped 

His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced  his 
side. 

He  reeled,  and  staggering  back,  sunk  to  the 
ground. 

And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the  wind 
fell, 

And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted 

all 

The  cloud;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the 
pair — 

30 


Saw  Rustum  standing,  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Sohrab  wounded,  on  the  bloody  sand. 
Then  with  a bitter  smile,  Rustum  began : — 
“ Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to 
kill 

A Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse, 
And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab’s  tent ; 

Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come 
down 

Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would 
move 

His  heart  to  take  a gift,  and  let  thee  go. 

And  then  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 
Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy 
fame, 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 

Fool ! thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown 
man ! 

Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be, 

Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old.” 
And  with  a fearless  mien  Sohrab  replied : — 
“ Unknown  thou  art ; yet  thy  fierce  vaunt 
is  vain. 

Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful 
man! 

No ! Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For  were  I matched  with  ten  such  men  as 
thou, 

And  I were  he  who  till  to-day  I was, 

They  should  be  lying  here,  I standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm — 
That  name,  and  something,  I confess,  in  thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my 
shield 

Fall;  and  thy  spear  transfixed  an  unarmed 
foe. 

And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult’st  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man — tremble  to 
hear! 

The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death ! 
My  father,  whom  I seek  through  all  the 
world, 

He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee!  ” 
As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath 
found 

A breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 

Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a hill  lake, 

And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose, 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  off; — anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 
From  hunting,  and  a great  way  off  descries 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


466 

His  huddling  young  left  sole ; at  that,  he 
checks 

His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  hack  to  her  nest ; hut  she 
' Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 

In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken — 

A heap  of  fluttering  feathers.  Never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ; 

Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream,  as  she  sails  by. 

As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his 
loss — 

So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss ; but  stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 

But  with  a cold,  incredulous  voice,  he 
said : 

w What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge  ? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a son.” 

And,  with  a failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied : 
“ Ah  yes,  he  had ! and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear — 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries 
long, 

Somewhere,  I know  not  where,  hut  far  from 
here ; 

And  pierce  him  like  a stab,  and  make  him 
leap 

To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee — 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee — for  an  only  son  ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance 
he! 

O,  could  I live  till  I that  grief  had  seen ! 

Yet  him  I pity  not  so  much,  hut  her, 

My  mother,  who  in  Ader-haijan  dwells 
With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows 
gray 

With  age,  and  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is  done. 
But  a dark  rumor  will  he  bruited  up, 

From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear ; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more  ; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a nameless  foe, 

By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain.” 

He  spoke ; and  as  he  ceased  he  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  owp  death. 
He  spoke;  hut  Rustum  listened,  plunged  in 
thought. 


Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names 
he  knew ; 

For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe, 
Which  was  in  Ader-haijan  horn  to  him, 

Had  been  a puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all : 

So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  take  the  hoy,  to  train  in 
arms ; 

And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum’s  son ; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deemed  he ; yet  he  listened,  plunged  in 
thought ; 

And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon.  Tears  gathered  in  his 
eyes ; 

For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  hounding  rapture.  As,  at  dawn, 
The  shepherd  from  his  mountain  lodge  des- 
cries 

A far  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds — so  Rustum  saw 
His  youth;  saw  Sohratrs  mother,  in  her 
bloom ; 

And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved  well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair 
child 

With  joy ; and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led, 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer- 
time— 

The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 
i And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful 
hills 

In  Ader-haijan.  And  he  saw  that  youth, 

Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 
Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand. 

Like  some  rich  hyacinth,  which  by  the 
scythe 

Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 
Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 
And  lies,  a fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 
On  the  mown,  dying  grass : so  Sohrab  lay, 
Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 

And  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and 
said : 

“ 0 Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well 
have  loved ! 

Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM. 


Have  told  thee  false — thou  art  no  t Rustum’s 
son. 

For  Rustura  had  no  son.  One  child  he  had — 
But  one — a girl ; who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of 
us ; 

Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor 
war.” 

But  Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath ; for 
now 

The  anguish  of  the  deep-fixed  spear  grew 
fierce, 

And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 

And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die. 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe ; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said : 
“Man,  who  art  thou,  who  dost  deny  my 
words  ? 

Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men ; 

And  Falsehood,  while  I lived,  was  far  from 
mine. 

I tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore.” 
He  spoke  : and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum’s 
cheeks ; 

And  his  knees  tottered;  and  he  smote  his 
hand 

Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 
That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clanked  aloud ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  pressed  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said : 
“Sohrab,  that  were  a proof  which  could 
not  lie. 

If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum’s 
son.” 

Then,  with  weak,  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab 
loosed 

His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his  arm, 
And  showed  a sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked.  As  a cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain 
vase, 

An  emperor’s  gift ; at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And  all  day  long;  and,  when  night  comes, 
the  lamp 

Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin 
hands : 

So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab’s  arm — the  sign  of  Rustum’s  seal. 
It  was  that  griffin,  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 


46*7 

Rustum’s  great  father,  whom  they  left  to 
die, 

A helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks. 
Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  reared, 
and  loved ; 

Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  figure  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful 
eyes, 

And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand  and 
said: 

“How  sayest  thou?  Is  that  sign  the 
proper  sign 

Of  Rustum’s  son,  or  of  some  other  man’s  ? ” 

He  spoke : but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed, 
and  stood 

Speechless;  and  then  he  uttered  one  sharp 
cry— 

“ 0,  Boy — Thy  Father ! ” — and  his  voice  chok- 
ed there. 

And  then  a dark  cloud  passed  before  his  eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to 
earth. 

But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and 
cast 

His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And  with  fond,  faltering  fingers  stroked  his 
cheeks, 

Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life.  And  life 
Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his  eyes, 
And  they  stood  wide  with  horror;  and  he 
seized 

In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around, 
And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched  his 
hair — 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering 
arms; 

And  strong,  convulsive  groanings  shook  his 
breast, 

And  his  sobs  choked  him ; and  he  clutched 
his  sword 

To  draw  it,  and  for  ever  let  life  out. 

But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his 
hands; 

And  with  a soothing  voice  he  spoke,  and 
said : 

“Father,  forbear!  for  I but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  that  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven’s  uncon- 
scious hand. 

Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 


468 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


When  first  I saw  thee ; and  thy  heart  spoke 
too, 

I know  it.  But  Fate  trod  those  promptings 
down 

Under  its  iron  heel ; Fate,  Fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father’s 
spear. 

But  let  ns  speak  no  more  of  this — I find 
My  father ; let  me  feel  that  I have  found. 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my 
cheeks, 

And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say, 

‘ My  Son ! ’ 

Quick!  quick!  for  numbered  are  my  sands 
of  life, 

And  swift ; for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 
I came,  and  like  the  wind  I go  away — 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a passing  wind. 
But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should 
he.” 

So  said  he:  and  his  voice  released  the 
heart 

Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth;  he 
cast 

His  arms  round  his  son’s  neck,  and  wept 
aloud, 

And  kissed  him.  And  awe  fell  on  both  the 
hosts 

When  they  saw  Rustum’s  grief ; and  Ruksh, 
the  horse, 

With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground,  and 
mane 

Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute 
woe, 

First  to  the  one  then  to  the  other  moved 
His  head,  as  if  enquiring  what  their  grief 
Might  mean;  and  from  his  dark,  compas- 
sionate eyes, 

The  big,  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked 
the  sand. 

But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and 
said : 

“ Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest ; but,  O Ruksh, 
thy  feet 

Should  then  have  rotted  on  thy  nimble  joints, 
When  first  they  bore  thy  master  to  this  field.” 

But  Sohrab  looked  upon  the  horse  and 
said ; 

“ Is  this  then  Ruksh  ? How  often,  in  past 
days, 


My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave 
steed — 

My  terrible  father’s  terrible  horse ! and  said 
That  I should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and 
thee. 

Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane. 

O Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I ; 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I shall  never  go, 
And  snuffed  the  breezes  of  my  father’s  home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 

And  seen  the  river  of  Helmund,  and  the 
lake 

Of  Zirrah ; and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given  thee 
food — 

Corn  in  a golden  platter  soaked  with  wine — 
And  said — c O,  Ruksh ! bear  Rustum  well ! ’ 
But  I 

Have  never  known  my  grandsire’s  furrowed 
face, 

Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 

Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund 
stream ; 

But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and 
seen 

Afrasiab’s  cities  only,  Samarcand, 

Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 

And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents;  and  only 
drunk 

The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their 
sheep, 

The  northern  Sir;  and  this  great  Oxus 
stream — 

The  yellow  Oxas,  by  whose  brink  I die.” 
And,  with  a heavy  groan,  Rustum  replied  : 
“O  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me  ! 

0 that  I saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o’er  my  head ! ” 
And,  with  a grave,  mild  voice,  Sohrab  re- 
plied : 

“Desire  not  that,  my  father!  Thou  must 
live; 

For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live; 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 

Do  thou  the  deeds  I die  too  young  to  do, 

And  reap  a second  glory  in  thine  age ; 

Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 

But  come ! thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me;  I pray  thee,  slay  not 
these! 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM 


Let  me  entreat  for  them — what  have  they 
done  ? 

They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my 
star. 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  hear  hence,  not  send  with 
them, 

But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 

And  place  me  on  a bed,  and  mourn  for  me — 
Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all  thy 
friends. 

And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a stately  mound  above  my  hones, 
And  plant  a far-seen  pillar  over  all ; 

That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a great  way  off,  and  say : 
Sohrab,  the  mighty  Hus  turn’s  son , lies  there , 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  hill — 
And  I be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave.” 

And,  with  a mournful  voice,  Rustum  re- 
plied : 

“ Fear  not ! as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab,  my 
son, 

So  shall  it  be ; for  I will  burn  my  tents, 

And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with 
me, 

And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 

And  place  thee  on  a bed,  and  mourn  for  thee, 
With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my 
friends. 

And  I will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 

And  heap  a stately  mound  above  thy  bones, 
And  plant  a far-seen  pillar  over  all ; 

And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave ; 
And  I will  spare  thy  host — yea,  let  them 
go — 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  hack  in  peace. 
What  should  I do  with  slaying  any  more  ? 
For  would  that  all  whom  I have  ever  slain 
Might  he  once  more  alive — my  bitterest  foes, 
And  they  who  were  called  champions  in  their 
time, 

And  through  whose  death  I won  that  fame  I 
have — 

And  I were  nothing  but  a common  man, 

A poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown ; 
So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my  son ! 
Or  rather,  would  that  I,  even  I myself, 

Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 

Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of 
thine, 


469 

Not  thou  of  mine ; and  I might  die,  not  thou ; 
And  I,  not  thou,  he  borne  to  Seistan  ; 

And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not 
thine ; 

And  say — 0 son , I weep  thee  not  too  sore , 

For  willingly , I Tcnow,  thou  met' at  thine 
end! — 

But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 
And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age ; 

And  I shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood.” 
Then  at  the  point  of  death,  Sohrab  re- 
plied : — 

“ A life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man ! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace ; only  not  now, 
Not  yet.  But  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai-Ivhosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt,  blue  sea, 

From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave.” 
And  Rustum  gazed  on  Sohrab’s  face,  and 
said : — 

“ Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that  sea ! 
Till  then,  if  Fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure.” 

He  spoke : and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and 
took 

The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and 
eased 

His  wound’s  imperious  anguish.  But  the 
blood 

Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flowed  with  the  stream ; all  down  his  cold 
white  side 

The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now,  and 
soiled — 

Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,  on  their  native  bank 
By  romping  children,  whom  their  nurses  call 
From  the  hot  fields  at  noon.  Ilis  head 
drooped  low ; 

His  limbs  grew  slack ; motionless,  white,  he 
lay— 

White,  with  eyes  closed ; only  when  heavy 
gasps, 

Deep,  heavy  gasps,  quivering  through  all  his 
frame, 

Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened  them, 
And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father’s  face. 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed,  and  from  his 
limbs 

Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 

Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left. 


470 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


And  youth  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful 
world. 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead. 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman’s 
cloak 

Down  o’er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high- 
reared 

By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now,  mid  their  broken  flights  of 
steps, 

Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side— 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn 
waste, 

And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darkened  all ; and  a cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.  Soon  a hum  arose, 

As  of  a great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog ; for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their 
meal; 

The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward ; the  Tartars  by  the  river  marge. 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 

Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian 
waste, 

Under  the  solitary  moon.  He  flowed 
Right  for  the  Polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large.  Then 
sands  begin 

To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his 
streams, 

And  split  his  currents — that  for  many  a 
league 

The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand,  and  matted,  rushy 
isles — 

Oxus  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamere — 

A foiled,  circuitous  wanderer.  Till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and 
wide 

His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new- 
bathed  stars 

Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


IPHIGENEIA  AND  AGAMEMHOH. 

Iphigexeia,  when  she  heard  her  doom 
At  Aulis,  and  when  all  beside  the  king 
Had  gone  away,  took  his  right  hand,  anc 
said: 

“ O father ! I am  young  and  very  happy. 

I do  not  think  the  pious  Calchas  heard 
Distinctly  what  the  goddess  spake ; — old  age 
Obscures  the  senses.  If  my  nurse,  who  knew 
My  voice  so  well,  sometimes  misunderstood, 
While  I was  resting  on  her  knee  both  arms, 
And  hitting  it  to  make  her  mind  my  words, 
And  looking  in  her  face,  and  she  in  mine, 
Might  not  he,  also,  hear  one  word  amiss, 
Spoken  from  so  far  off,  even  from  Olympus  ? ” 
The  father  placed  his  cheek  upon  her  head, 
And  tears  dropt  down  it;  but  the  king  of 
men 

Replied  not.  Then  the  maiden  spake  once 
more. 

“O  father!  sayest  thou  nothing?  Hearest 
thou  not 

Me,  whom  thou  ever  hast,  until  this  hour, 
Listened  to  fondly,  and  awakened  me 
To  hear  my  voice  amid  the  voice  of  birds, 
When  it  was  inarticulate  as  theirs, 

And  the  down  deadened  it  within  the  nest  ? ” 
He  moved  her  gently  from  him,  silent  still; 
And  this,  and  this  alone,  brought  tears  from 
her, 

Although  she  saw  fate  nearer.  Then  with 
sighs : 

“ I thought  to  have  laid  down  my  hair  before 
Benignant  Artemis,  and  not  dimmed 
Her  polished  altar  with  my  virgin  blood ; 

I thought  to  have  selected  the  white  flowers 
To  please  the  nymphs,  and  to  have  asked  of 
each 

By  name,  and  with  no  sorrowful  regret, 
Whether,  since  both  my  parents  willed  the 
change, 

I might  at  Hymen’s  feet  bend  my  clipt  brow ; 
And  (after  these  who  mind  us  girls  the  most) 
Adore  our  own  Athene,  that  she  would 
Regard  me  mildly  with  her  azure  eyes — 

But,  father,  to  see  you  no  more,  and  see 
Your  love,  0 father!  go  ere  I am  gone!  ” 
Gently  he  moved  her  off,  and  drew  her  back, 
Bending  his  lofty  head  far  over  hers  ; 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  CELIN.  4*71 


And  the  dark  depths  of  nature  heaved  and 
hurst. 

He  turned  away — not  far,  hut  silent  still. 

She  now  first  shuddered ; for  in  him,  so  nigh, 
So  long  a silence  seemed  the  approach  of 
death, 

And  like  it.  Once  again  she  raised  her  voice : 
M O father ! if  the  ships  are  now  detained, 
And  all  your  vows  move  not  the  gods  above, 
When  the  knife  strikes  me  there  will  he  one 
prayer 

The  less  to  them ; and  purer  can  there  be 
Any,  or  more  fervent,  than  the  daughter’s 
prayer  * 

For  her  dear  father’s  safety  and  success?  ” 

A groan  that  shook  him  shook  not  his  resolve. 
An  aged  man  now  entered,  and  without 
One  word,  stepped  slowly  on,  and  took  the 
wrist 

Of  the  pale  maiden.  She  looked  up,  and  saw 
The  fillet  of  the  priest  and  calm  cold  eyes. 
Then  turned  she  where  her  parent  stood,  and 
cried : 

“0  father!  grieve  no  more:  the  ships  can 
sail.” 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


THE  LAMENTATION  FOR  CELIN. 

At  the  gate  of  old  Granada,  when  all  its  holts 
are  barred, 

At  twilight,  at  the  Yega-gate,  there  is  a 
trampling  heard ; 

There  is  a trampling  heard,  as  of  horses  tread- 
ing slow, 

And  a weeping  voice  of  women,  and  a heavy 
sound  of  woe. 

What  tower  is  fallen  ? what  star  is  set  ? what 
chief  comes  these  bewailing? 

“ A tower  is  fallen,  a star  is  set ! Alas ! alas 
for  Celin ! ” 

Three  times  they  knock — three  times  they 
cry — and  wide  the  doors  they  throw ; 

Dejectedly  they  enter,  and  mournfully  they  go ; 

In  gloomy  lines  they,  mustering,  stand  be- 
neath the  hollow  porch, 

Each  horseman  grasping  in  his  hand  a black 
and  flaming  torch ; 


Wet  is  each  eye  as  they  go  by,  and  all  around 
is  wailing, 

For  all  have  heard  the  misery. — “ Alas!  alas 
for  Celin ! ” 

Him,  yesterday,  a Moor  did  slay,  of  Bencer- 
raje’s  blood — 

’Twas  at  the  solemn  jousting — around  the 
nobles  stood ; 

The  nobles  of  the  land  were  by,  and  ladies 
bright  and  fair 

Looked  from  their  latticed  windows,  the 
haughty  sight  to  share ; 

But  now  the  nobles  all  lament — the  ladies  are 
bewailing — 

For  he  was  Granada’s  darling  knight — “Alas! 
alas  for  Celin ! ” 

Before  him  ride  his  vassals,  in  order  two  by 
two, 

With  ashes  on  their  turbans  spread,  most  piti- 
ful to  view ; 

Behind  him  his  four  sisters,  each  wrapped  in 
sable  veil, 

Between  the  tambour’s  dismal  strokes  take 
up  their  doleful  tale ; 

When  stops  the  muffled  drum  ye  hear  their 
brotherless  bewailing, 

And  all  the  people,  far  and  near,  cry — “Alas! 
alas  for  Celin ! ” 

Oh!  lovely  lies  he  on  the  bier,  above  the 
purple  pall, — 

The  flower  of  all  Granada’s  youth,  the  love- 
liest of  them  all ; 

His  dark,  dark  eyes  are  closed ; his  rosy  lip  is 
pale; 

The  crust  of  blood  lies  black  and  dim  upon 
his  burnished  mail ; 

And  ever  more  the  hoarse  tambour  breaks  in 
upon  their  wailing — 

Its  sound  is  like  no  earthly  sound — “Alas! 
alas  for  Celin ! ” 

The  Moorish  maid  at  the  lattice  stands — the 
Moor  stands  at  his  door ; 

One  maid  is  wringing  of  her  hands,  and  one 
is  weeping  sore ; 

Down  to  the  dust  men  bow  their  heads,  and 
ashes  black  they  strew 

Upon  their  broidered  garments  of  crimson, 
green  and  blue ; 

! 


472 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Before  each  gate  the  bier  stands  still — then 
bursts  the  loud  bewailing 
From  door  and  lattice,  high  and  low — “ Alas! 
alas  for  Celin ! ” 

An  old,  old  woman  cometh  forth,  when  she 
hears  the  people  cry — 

Her  hair  is  white  as  silver,  like  horn  her 
glazed  eye : 

’T  was  she  that  nursed  him  at  her  breast — 
that  nursed  him  long  ago; 

She  knows  not  whom  they  all  lament,  but 
soon  she  well  shall  know ! 

With  one  deep  shriek,  she  through  doth  break,  • 
when  her  ears  receive  their  wailing — 
f‘  Let  me  kiss  my  Celin  ere  I die — Alas ! alas 
for  Celin!” 

Moorish  Ballad. 

Translation  of  J.  Gr.  Lockhart. 


A VERY  MOURNFUL  BALLAD. 

OX  THE  SIEGE  AND  CONQUEST  OF  ALHAMA, 
WHICH,  IN  THE  ARABIC  LANGUAGE,  IS 
TO  THE  FOLLOWING  PURPORT: 

The  Moorish  king  rides  up  and  down 
Through  Granada’s  royal  town ; 

From  Elvira’s  gates  to  those 
Of  Bivarambla  on  he  goes. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Letters  to  the  monarch  tell 
How  Alhama’s  city  fell : 

In  the  fire  the  scroll  he  threw, 

And  the  messenger  he  slew. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

He  quits  his  mule  and  mounts  his  horse, 
And  through  the  street  directs  his  course ; 
Through  the  street  of  Zacatin 
To  the  Alhambra  spurring  in. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

When  the  Alhambra’s  walls  he  gained, 

On  the  moment  he  ordained 

That  the  trumpet  straight  should  sound 

With  the  silver  clarion  round. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 


And  when  the  hollow  drums  of  war 
Beat  the  loud  alarm  afar, 

That  the  Moors  of  town  and  plain 
Might  answer  to  the  martial  strain. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

• 

Then  the  Moors,  by  this  aware 
That  bloody  Mars  recalled  them  there, 
One  by  one,  and  two  by  two, 

To  a mighty  squadron  grew. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama! 

Out  then  spake  an  aged  Moor, 

In  these  words  the  king  before : 
“Wherefore  call  on  us,  O king? 

What  may  mean  this  gathering?” 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ Friends ! ye  have,  alas ! to  know 
Of  a most  disastrous  blow — 

That  the  Christians,  stern  and  bold, 

Have  obtained  Alhama’s  hold.” 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Out  then  spake  old  Alfaqui, 

With  his  beard  so  white  to  see : 

“ Good  king ! thou  art  justly  served — 
Good  king ! this  thou  hast  deserved. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“By  thee  were  slain,  in  evil  hour, 

The  Abencerrage,  Granada’s  flower ; 

And  strangers  were  received  by  thee, 

Of  Cordova  the  chivalry. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“And  for  this,  0 king!  is  sent 
On  thee  a double  chastisement ; 

Thee  and  thine,  thy  crown  and  realm, 
One  last  wreck  shall  overwhelm. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ He  who  holds  no  laws  in  awe, 

He  must  perish  by  the  law ; 

And  Granada  must  be  won, 

And  thyself  with  her  undone.” 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

Fire  flashed  from  out  the  old  Moor’s  eyes. 
The  monarch’s  wrath  began  to  rise ; 


THE  FISHERMEN. 


473 


Because  he  answered,  and  because 
He  spake  exceeding  well  of  laws. 

Wo  is  me , Alhama  ! 

“ There  is  no  law  to  say  such  things 
As  may  disgust  the  ear  of  kings : ” — 
Thus,  snorting  with  his  choler,  said 
The  Moorish  king,  and  doomed  him  dead. 

Wo  is  me , Alhama  ! 

Moor  Alfaqui ! Moor  Alfaqui ! 

Though  thy  beard  so  hoary  be, 

The  king  hath  sent  to  have  thee  seized, 
For  Alhama’s  loss  displeased — 

Wo  is  me , Alhama  ! 

And  to  fix  thy  head  upon 
High  Alhambra’s  loftiest  stone ; 

That  this  for  thee  should  be  the  law, 

And  others  tremble  when  they  saw. 

Wo  is  me , Alhama  ! 

“ Cavalier,  and  man  of  worth ! 

Let  these  words  of  mine  go  forth ; 

Let  the  Moorish  monarch  know 
That  to  him  I nothing  owe. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ But  on  my  soul  Alhama  weighs, 

And  on  my  inmost  spirit  preys ; 

And  if  the  king  his  land  hath  lost, 

Yet  others  may  have  lost  the  most. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ Sires  have  lost  their  children,  wives 
Their  lords,  and  valiant  men  their  lives ; 
One  what  best  his  love  might  claim 
Hath  lost;  another,  wealth  or  fame. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

“ I lost  a damsel  in  that  hour, 

Of  all  the  land  the  loveliest  flower ; 
Doubloons  a hundred  I would  pay, 

And  think  her  ransom  cheap  that  day.” 
Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  as  these  things  the  old  Moor  said, 
They  severed  from  the  trunk  his  head ; 
And  to  the  Alhambra’s  walls  with  speed 
’T  was  carried,  as  the  king  decreed. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama! 


And  men  and  infants  therein  weep 
Their  loss,  so  heavy  and  so  deep ; 
Granada’s  ladies,  all  she  rears 
Within  her  walls,  burst  into  tears. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 

And  from  the  windows  o’er  the  walls 
The  sable  web  of  mourning  falls ; 

The  king  weeps  as  a woman  o’er 
His  loss,  for  it  is  much  and  sore. 

Wo  is  me,  Alhama  ! 
Anonymous  (Spanish). 

Translation  of  Lord  Byron. 


THE  FISHERMEN". 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the 
West — 

Out  into  the  West  as  the  sun  went  down; 

Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him 
the  best, 

And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out 
of  the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep; 

And  there ’s  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  light-house  tower 
And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went 
down ; 

And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they 
looked  at  the  shower, 

And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up,  ragged 
and  brown ; 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went 
down, 

And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing 
their  hands, 

For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to 
the  town ; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must 
weep — 

And  the  sooner  it’s  over,  the  sooner  to 
sleep — 

And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


474 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 

Eteknal  spirit  of  the  chainless  mind ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty,  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 

The  heart  which  love  of  thee  alone  can  hind ; 
And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consigned — 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault’s  dayless 
gloom — 

Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyr- 
dom, 

And  Freedom’s  fame  finds  wings  on  every 
wind. 

Chillon ! thy  prison  is  a holy  place, 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar — for  ’t  was  trod 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a trace, 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a sod, 
By  Bonnivard! — May  none  those  marks  ef- 
face! 

For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

i. 

My  hair  is  gray,  hut  not  with  years, 

Nor  grew  it  white 
In  a single  night, 

As  men’s  have  grown  from  sudden  fears ; 

My  limbs  are  bowed,  though  not  with  toil, 
But  rusted  with  a vile  repose ; 

For  they  have  been  a dungeon’s  spoil, 

And  mine  has  been  the  fate  of  those 
To  whom  the  goodly  earth  and  air 
Are  banned  and  barred — forbidden  fare. 

But  this  was  for  my  father’s  faith 
I suffered  chains  and  courted  death. 

That  father  perished  at  the  stake 
For  tenets  he  would  not  forsake ; 

And  for  the  same  his  lineal  race 
In  darkness  found  a dwelling-place. 

We  were  seven,  who  now  are  one — 

Six  in  youth,  and  one  in  age, 

Finished  as  they  had  begun, 

Proud  of  persecution’s  rage  ; 

One  in  fire,  and  two  in  field, 

Their  belief  with  blood  have  sealed — 

Dying  as  their  father  died, 

For  the  God  their  foes  denied ; 

Three  were  in  a dungeon  cast, 

Of  whom  this  wreck  is  left  the  last. 


n. 

There  are  seven  pillars,  of  Gothic  mould, 
In  Chillon’s  dungeons  deep  and  old ; 

There  are  seven  columns,  massy  and  gray, 
Dim  with  a dull  imprisoned  ray — 

A sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its  way, 

And  through  the  crevice  and  the  cleft 
Of  the  thick  wall  is  fallen  and  left — 
Creeping  o’er  the  floor  so  damp, 

Like  a marsh’s  meteor  lamp ; 

And  in  each  pillar  there  is  a ring, 

And  in  each  ring  there  is  a chain ; 

That  iron  is  a cankering  thing, 

For  in  these  limbs  its  teeth  remain, 
With  marks  that  will  not  wear  away 
Till  I have  done  with  this  new  day, 
Which  now  is  painful  to  these  eyes, 
Which  have  not  seen  the  sun  so  rise 
For  years — I cannot  count  them  o’er ; 

I lost  their  long  and  heavy  score 
When  my  last  brother  drooped  and  died, 
And  I lay  living  by  his  side. 

in. 

They  chained  us  each  to  a column  stone ; 
And  we  were  three — yet,  each  alone. 

We  could  not  move  a single  pace ; 

We  could  not  see  each  other’s  face, 

But  with  that  pale  and  livid  light 
That  made  us  strangers  in  our  sight ; 

And  thus  together,  yet  apart — 

Fettered  in  hand,  but  joined  in  heart ; 

’T  was  still  some  solace,  in  the  dearth 
Of  the  pure  elements  of  earth, 

To  hearken  to  each  other’s  speech, 

And  each  turn  comforter  to  each — 

With  some  new  hope,  or  legend  old, 

Or  song  heroically  bold ; 

But  even  these  at  length  grew  cold. 

Our  voices  took  a dreary  tone, 

An  echo  of  the  dungeon-stone, 

A grating  sound — not  full  and  free, 

As  they  of  yore  were  wont  to  be ; 

It  might  be  fancy — but  to  me 
They  never  sounded  like  our  own. 

IV. 

I was  the  eldest  of  the  three ; 

And  to  uphold  and  cheer  the  rest 
I ought  to  do,  and  did,  my  best — 

And  each  did  well  in  his  degree. 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


41 5 


The  youngest,  whom  my  father  loved, 
Because  our  mother’s  brow  was  given 
To  him — with  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven — 
For  him  my  soul  was  sorely  moved ; 

And  truly  might  it  be  distrest 
To  see  such  bird  in  such  a nest ; 

For  he  was  beautiful  as  day 
(When  day  was  beautiful  to  me 
As  to  young  eagles,  being  free), 

A polar  day,  which  will  not  see 
A sunset  till  its  summer ’s  gone — 

Its  sleepless  summer  of  long  light, 

The  snow-clad  offspring  of  the  sun : 

And  thus  he  was,  as  pure  and  bright, 
And  in  his  natural  spirit  gay, 

With  tears  for  naught  but  other’s  ills ; 

And  then  they  flowed  like  mountain  rills, 
Unless  he  could  assuage  the  wo 
Which  he  abhorred  to  view  below. 

v. 

The  other  was  as  pure  of  mind, 

But  formed  to  combat  with  his  kind ; 
Strong  in  his  frame,  and  of  a mood 
Which  ’gainst  the  world  in  war  had  stood, 
And  perished  in  the  foremost  rank 
With  joy ; but  not  in  chains  to  pine. 

His  spirit  withered  with  their  clank ; 

I saw  it  silently  decline — 

And  so,  perchance,  in  sooth,  did  mine ! 
But  yet  I forced  it  on,  to  cheer 
Those  relics  of  a home  so  dear. 

He  was  a hunter  of  the  hills, 

Had  followed  there  the  deer  and  wolf ; 
To  him  this  dungeon  was  a gulf, 

And  fettered  feet  the  worst  of  ills. 

VI. 

Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon’s  walls. 

A thousand  feet  in  depth  below, 

Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow ; 

Thus  much  the  fathom-line  was  sent 
From  Chillon’s  snow-white  battlement, 
Which  round  about  the  wave  enthrals ; 

A double  dungeon  wall  and  wave 
Have  made — and  like  a living  grave, 

Below  the  surface  of  the  lake 
The  dark  vault  lies  wherein  we  lay ; 

We  heard  it  ripple  night  and  day  ; 

Sounding  o’er  our  heads  it  knocked. 

A.nd  I have  felt  the  winter’s  spray 


Wash  through  the  bars  when  winds  were 
high, 

And  wanton  in  the  happy  sky ; 

And  then  the  very  rock  hath  rocked, 
And  I have  felt  it  shake,  unshocked ; 
Because  I could  have  smiled  to  see 
The  death  that  would  have  set  me  free. 

VII. 

I said  my  nearer  brother  pined ; 

I said  his  mighty  heart  declined. 

He  loathed  and  put  away  his  food ; 

It  was  not  that ’t  was  coarse  and  rude, 

For  we  were  used  to  hunter’s  fare, 

And  for  the  like  had  little  care. 

The  milk  drawn  from  the  mountain  goat 
Was  changed  for  water  from  the  moat ; 

Our  bread  was  such  as  captives’  tears 
Have  moistened  many  a thousand  years, 
Since  man  first  pent  his  fellow-men, 

Like  brutes,  within  an  iron  den. 

But  what  were  these  to  us  or  him  ? 

These  wasted  not  his  heart  or  limb ; 

My  brother’s  soul  was  of  that  mould 
Which  in  a palace  had  grown  cold, 

Had  his  free  breathing  been  denied 
The  range  of  the  steep  mountain’s  side. 

But  why  delay  the  truth  ? — he  died. 

I saw,  and  could  not  hold  his  head, 

Nor  reach  his  dying  hand — nor  dead, 

Though  hard  I strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 

To  rend  and  gnash  my  bonds  in  twain. 

He  died — and  they  unlocked  his  chain, 

And  scooped  for  him  a shallow  grave 
Even  from  the  cold  earth  of  our  cave. 

I begged  them,  as  a boon,  to  lay 
His  corse  in  dust  whereon  the  day 
Might  shine — it  was  a foolish  thought ; 

But  then  within  my  brain  it  wrought, 

That  even  in  death  his  freeborn  breast 
In  such  a dungeon  could  not  rest. 

I might  have  spared  my  idle  prayer — 

They  coldly  laughed,  and  laid  him  there, 

The  flat  and  turfless  earth  above 
The  being  we  so  much  did  love  ; 

His  empty  chain  above  it  leant — 

Such  murder’s  fitting  monument ! 

VIII. 

But  he,  the  favorite  and  the  flower, 

Most  cherished  since  his  natal  hour, 


476 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


His  mother’s  image  in  fair  face, 

The  infant  love  of  all  his  race, 

His  martyred  father’s  dearest  thought, 

My  latest  care — for  whom  I sought 
To  hoard  my  life,  that  his  might  be 
Less  -wretched  now,  and  one  day  free — 
He,  too,  who  yet  had  held  untired 
A spirit  natural  or  inspired — 

He,  too,  was  struck,  and  day  hy  day 
Was  withered  on  the  stalk  away. 

0 God ! it  is  a fearful  thing 

To  see  the  human  soul  take  wing 
In  any  shape,  in  any  mood : 

1 Jve  seen  it  rushing  forth  in  blood  ; 

I ’ve  seen  it  on  the  breaking  ocean 
Strive  with  a swollen,  convulsive  motion ; 
I ’ve  seen  the  sick  and  ghastly  bed 

Of  sin,  delirious  with  its  dread ; 

But  these  were  horrors — this  was  wo 
TJnmixed  with  such — but  sure  and  slow. 
He  faded,  and  so  calm  and  meek, 

So  softly  worn,  so  sweetly  weak, 

So  tearless,  yet  so  tender — kind, 

And  grieved  for  those  he  left  behind ; 

■ With  all  the  while  a cheek  whose  bloom 
Was  as  a mockery  of  the  tomb, 

Whose  tints  as  gently  sunk  away 
As  a departing  rainbow’s  ray— 

An  eye  of  most  transparent  light, 

That  almost  made  the  dungeon  bright, 
And  not  a word  of  murmur,  not 
A groan  o’er  his  untimely  lot — 

A little  talk  of  better  days, 

A little  hope  my  own  to  raise ; 

For  I was  sunk  in  silence — -lost 
In  this  last  loss,  of  all  the  most. 

And  then  the  sighs  he  would  suppress 
Of  fainting  nature’s  feebleness, 
j More  slowly  drawn,  grew  less  and  less, 
i I listened,  but  I could  not  hear — 

I called,  for  I was  wild  with  fear ; 

I knew ’t  was  hopeless*  but  my  dread 
Would  not  be  thus  admonished ; 

I called,  and  thought  I heard  a sound — 

I burst  my  chain  with  one  strong  bound, 

I And  rushed  to  him : I found  him  not. 

I only  stirred  in  this  black  spot ; 

I I only  lived — I only  drew 

The  accursed  breath  of  dungeon-dew ; 
The  last,  the  sole,  the  dearest  link 
Between  me  and  the  eternal  brink, 


Which  bound  me  to  my  failing  race, 

W as  broken  in  this  fatal  place. 

One  on  the  earth,  and  one  beneath — 

My  brothers — both  had  ceased  to  breathe. 
I took  that  hand  which  lay  so  still — 

Alas ! my  own  was  full  as  chill ; 

I had  not  strength  to  stir  or  strive, 

But  felt  that  I was  still  alive — 

A frantic  feeling,  wrhen  we  know 
That  what  we  love  shall  ne’er  be  so. 

I know  not  why 
I could  not  die, 

I had  no  earthly  hope — but  faith, 

And  that  forbade  a selfish  death. 

IX. 

What  next  befell  me  then  and  there 
I know  not  well — I never  knew. 

First  came  the  loss  of  light  and  air, 

And  then  of  darkness  too. 

I had  no  thought,  no  feeling — none : 
Among  the  stones  I stood  a stone ; 

And  was,  scarce  conscious  what  I wist, 
As  shrubless  crags  within  the  mist ; 

For  all  was  blank,  and  bleak,  and  gray ; 

It  was  not  night — it  was  not  day; 

It  was  not  even  the  dungeon-light, 

So  hateful  to  my  heavy  sight ; 

But  vacancy  absorbing  space, 

And  fixedness,  without  a place ; 

There  were  no  stars,  no  earth,  no  time, 
Ho  check,  no  change,  no  good,  no  crime  ; 
But  silence,  and  a stirless  breath 
Which  neither  was  of  life  nor  death — 

A sea  of  stagnant  idleness, 

Blind,  boundless,  mute,  and  motionless. 

x. 

A light  broke  in  upon  my  brain — 

It  was  the  carol  of  a bird ; 

It  ceased,  and  then  it  came  again — 

The  sweetest  song  ear  ever  heard ; 

And  mine  was  thankful  till  my  eyes 
Ran  over  with  the  glad  surprise, 

And  they  that  moment  could  not  see 
I was  the  mate  of  misery ; 

But  then,  by  dull  degrees  came  back 
My  senses  to  their  wonted  track : 

I saw  the  dungeon  walls  and  floor 
Close  slowly  round  me  as  before : 


THE  PRISONER  OF  CHILLON. 


4 11 


I saw  tlie  glimmer  of  the  sun 
Creeping  as  it  before  had  done  ; 

But  through  the  crevice  where  it  came 
That  bird  was  perched  as  fond  and  tame, 
And  tamer  than  upon  the  tree — 

A lovely  bird  with  azure  wings, 

And  song  that  said  a thousand  things, 

And  seemed  to  say  them  all  for  me ! 

I never  saw  its  like  before — 

I ne’er  shall  see  its  likeness  more. 

It  seemed,  like  me,  to  want  a mate, 

But  was  not  half  so  desolate ; 

And  it  was  come  to  love  me  when 
None  lived  to  love  me  so  again, 

And,  cheering  from  my  dungeon’s  brink, 

Had  brought  me  back  to  feel  and  think. 

I know  not  if  it  late  were  free, 

Or  broke  its  cage  to  perch  on  mine ; 

But  knowing  well  captivity, 

Sweet  bird ! I could  not  wish  for  thine — 
Or  if  it  were,  in  winged  guise, 

A visitant  from  Paradise ; 

For — Heaven  forgive  that  thought,  the  while 
Which  made  me  both  to  weep  and  smile ! — 
I sometimes  deemed  that  it  might  be 
My  brother’s  soul  come  down  to  me ; 

But  then  at  last  away  it  flew, 

And  then ’t  was  mortal  well  1 knew ; 

For  he  would  never  thus  have  flown, 

And  left  me  twice  so  doubly  lone — 

Lone  as  the  corse  within  its  shroud, 

Lone  as  a solitary  cloud, 

A single  cloud  on  a sunny  day, 

While  all  the  rest  of  heaven  is  clear, 

A frown  upon  the  atmosphere, 

That  hath  no  business  to  appear 

When  skies  are  blue,  and  earth  is  gay. 

XI. 

A kind  of  change  came  in  my  fate — 

My  keepers  grew  compassionate. 

I know  not  what  had  made  them  so — 

They  were  inured  to  sights  of  woe  ; 

But  so  it  was — my  broken  chain 
With  links  unfastened  did  remain  ; 

And  it  was  liberty  to  stride 
Along  my  cell  from  side  to  side, 

And  up  and  down,  and  then  athwart, 

And  tread  it  over  every  part ; 

And  round  the  pillars  one  by  one, 

Returning  where  my  walk  begun — 


Avoiding  only,  as  I trod, 

My  brothers’  graves  without  a sod  ; 

For  if  I thought  with  heedless  tread 
My  step  profaned  their  lowly  bed, 

My  breath  came  gaspingly  and  thick, 

And  my  crushed  heart  fell  blind  and  sick. 

XII. 

I made  a footing  in  the  wall : 

It  was  not  therefrom  to  escape, 

For  I had  buried  one  and  all 
Who  loved  me  in  a human  shape ; 

And  the  whole  earth  would  henceforth  be 
A wider  prison  unto  me ; 

No  child,  no  sire,  no  kin  had  I, 

No  partner  in  my  misery. 

I thought  of  this,  and  I was  glad, 

For  thought  of  them  had  made  me  mad ; 

But  I was  curious  to  ascend 
To  my  barred  windows,  and  to  bend 
Once  more  upon  the  mountains  high 
The  quiet  of  a loving  eye. 

XIII. 

I saw  them — and  they  were  the  same ; 

They  were  not  changed,  like  me,  in  frame  ; 

I saw  their  thousand  years  of  snow 
On  high — their  wide,  long  lake  below, 

And  the  blue  Rhone  in  fullest  flow ; 

I heard  the  torrents  leap  and  gush 
O’er  channelled  rock  and  broken  bush ; 

I saw  the  white-walled  distant  town, 

And  whiter  sails  go  skimming  down ; 

And  then  there  was  a little  isle, 

Which  in  my  very  face  did  smile — 

The  only  one  in  view ; 

A small,  green  isle,  it  seemed  no  more, 

Scarce  broader  than  my  dungeon  floor ; 

But  in  it  there  were  three  tall  trees, 

And  o’er  it  blew  the  mountain  breeze, 

And  by  it  there  were  waters  flowing, 

And  on  it  there  were  young  flowers  growing 
Of  gentle  breath  and  hue. 

The  fish  swam  by  the  castle  wall, 

And  they  seemed  joyous,  each  and  all ; 

The  eagle  rode  the  rising  blast — 

Methought  he  never  flew  so  fast 
As  then  to  me  he  seemed  to  fly ; 

And  then  new  tears  came  in  my  eye, 

And  I felt  troubled,  and  would  fain 
I had  not  left  my  recent  chain  ; 


478 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


! And  when  I did  descend  again. 

1 The  darkness  of  my  dim  abode 
I Fell  on  me  as  a heavy  load ; 
i It  was  as  is  a new-dug  grave, 

| Closing  o’er  one  we  sought  to  save ; 

! And  yet  my  glance,  too  much  opprest, 

Had  almost  need  of  such  a rest. 

XIV. 

It  might  be  months,  or  years,  or  days — 

I kept  no  count,  I took  no  note — 

I had  no  hope  my  eyes  to  raise, 

And  clear  them  of  their  dreary  mote  ; 

At  last  came  men  to  set  me  free, 

I asked  not  why,  and  recked  not  where ; 
It  was  at  length  the  same  to  me, 

Fettered  or  fetterless  to  be ; 

I learned  to  love  despair. 

And  thus,  when  they  appeared  at  last, 

And  all  my  bonds  aside  were  cast, 

These  heavy  walls  to  me  had  grown 
A hermitage — and  all  my  own ! 

And  half  I felt  as  they  were  come 
To  tear  me  from  a sacred  home. 

With  spiders  I had  friendship  made, 

And  watched  them  in  their  sullen  trade ; 
Had  seen  the  mice  by  moonlight  play — 
And  why  should  I feel  less  than  they  ? 

We  were  all  inmates  of  one  place, 

And  I,  the  monarch  of  each  race, 

Had  power  to  kill ; yet,  strange  to  tell ! 

In  quiet  we  had  learned  to  dwell. 

My  very  chains  and  1 grew  friends, 

So  much  a long  communion  tends 
To  make  us  what  we  are  : — even  I 
Regained  my  freedom  with  a sigh. 

Lord  Byron. 


THE  SEA. 

Through  the  night,  through  the  night, 
In  the  saddest  unrest, 

Wrapt  in  white,  all  in  white, 

With  her  babe  on  her  breast, 

Walks  the  mother  so  pale, 

Staring  out  on  the  gale 
Through  the  night! 


Through  the  night,  through  the  night, 
Where  the  sea  lifts  the  wreck, 

Land  in  sight,  close  in  sight, 

On  the  surf-flooded  deck 
Stands  the  father  so  brave, 

Driving  on  to  his  grave 
Through  the  night ! 

Bichard  Henry  Stoddard. 


THE  KING  OF  DENMARK’S  RIDE. 

Word  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 
(Hurry !) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 

And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would 
bring; 

(0 ! ride  as  though  you  were  flying !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl : 
And  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  is  dying ! 

Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed ; 

(Hurry !) 

Each  one  mounting  a gallant  steed 
Which  he  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need ; 

(O ! ride  as  though  you  were  flying !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank ; 
Worn-out  ehargers  staggered  and  sank; 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  burst.; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 
For  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying ! 

His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one ; 

(Hurry !) 

They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  home- 
ward gone ; 

His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying ! 

The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child ; 
Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering 
din, 

Then  he  dropped ; and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying ! 

The  king  blew  a blast  on  his  bugle  horn ; 
(Silence!) 

No  answer  came  ; but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  grey  morn. 


LORD  ULLIN’S  DAUGHTER.  479 


Like  the  breath  of  a spirit  sighing. 

The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 

None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary 
ride; 

For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  welcomer  lay, 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying ! 

The  panting  steed,  with  a drooping  crest, 
Stood  weary. 

The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  of  rest, 
The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eyeing, 

The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to 
check ; 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger’s  neck : 

“ 0,  steed — that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 
Dear  steed,  onr  ride  hath  been  in  vain 
To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying ! ” 
Caroline  Norton. 


LORD  ULLIN’S  DAUGHTER. 

A chieftain,  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  “ Boatman,  do  not  tarry ! 

And  I ’ll  give  thee  a silver  pound 
To  row  us  o’er  the  ferry.” 

“ Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ? ” 

“ 0, 1 ’m  the  chief  of  Ulva’s  isle, 

And  this  Lord  Ullin’s  daughter. 

“And  fast  before  her  father’s  men 
Three  days  we ’ve  fled  together ; 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 

My  blood  wrould  stain  the  heather. 

“His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 
Should  they  our  steps  discover, 

Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ? ” 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

“ I ’ll  go,  my  chief — I ’m  ready. 

It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 

But  for  your  winsome  lady. 


“And  by  my  word ! the  bonny  bird 
In  danger  shall  not  tarry ; 

So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I ’ll  row  you  o’er  the  ferry.” 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace ; 

The  water- wraith  was  shrieking ; 

And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 

Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men — 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

“ O haste  thee,  haste ! ” the  lady  cries, 

“ Though  tempests  round  us  gather ; 

I ’ll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 

But  not  an  angry  father.” 

The  boat  has  left  a stormy  land, 

A stormy  sea  before  her — 

When,  O ! too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o’er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 
Of  waters  fast  prevailing — 

Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and 
shade 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 

One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

“ Come  back ! come  back ! ” he  cried  in 
grief, 

“Across  this  stormy  water ; 

And  I ’ll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter ! — 0 my  daughter ! ” 

’T  was  vain : — the  loud  waves  lashed  the 
shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing. 

The  waters  wild  went  o’er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


480 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE. 

WBITTEN  WHEN  THE  NEWS  AEBITED. 

Toll  for  the  brave — 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 

All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 

Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 

And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A land  breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset — 

Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 

His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock : 

She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath  ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 

When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

W eigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes ! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again, 

Full  charged  with  England’s  thunder, 
And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone — 

His  victories  are  o’er  : 

7 

And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  waves  no  more. 

William  Cowpeb. 


THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea — 

The  ship  was  still  as  she  might  be ; 

Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion; 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 

They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  Bell. 

The  holy  abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  floated  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
On  the  waves  of  the  storm  it  floated  and 
swung, 

And  louder  and  louder  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  rock  was  hid  by  the  tempest’s  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 

And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  rock, 

And  blessed  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  shone  so  gay — 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  sported  round, 
And  there  was  pleasure  in  their  sound. 

The  float  of  the  Inchcape  Bell  was  seen, 

A darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  walked  his  deck, 

And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  Spring — 

It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 

His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess  ; 

But  the  Rover’s  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  bell  and  float  : 

Quoth  he,  “ My  men,  pull  out  the  boat ; 

And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 

And  I ’ll  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok.” 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  cut  the  warning  bell  from  the  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a gurgling  sound ; 
The  bubbles  rose,  and  burst  around. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 


481 


Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  “ The  next  who  comes  to 
the  rock 

Will  not  bless  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok.” 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away — 

He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a day ; 

And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
He  steers  his  course  to  Scotland’s  shore. 

So  thick  a haze  o’erspreads  the  sky, 

They  could  not  see  the  sun  on  high ; 

The  wind  had  blown  a gale  all  day ; 

At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 

On  the  deck  the  Rover  takes  his  stand ; 

So  dark  it  is,  they  see  no  land. 

Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  “ It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon.” 

“Canst  hear,”  said  one,  “the  breakers  roar? 
For  yonder,  methinks,  should  be  the  shore. 
How  where  we  are  I cannot  tell, 

But  I wish  we  could  hear  the  Inchcape  Bell.” 

They  hear  no  sound ; the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen  they  drift  along ; 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a shivering  shock — 
0,  Christ ! it  is  the  Inchcape  Rock ! 

Eobeet  Soxjthey. 


THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HESPERUS. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus 
That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 

And  the  skipper  had  taken  his  little  daughter, 
To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy  flax, 

Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  white  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  'skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm  ; 

Hi3  pipe  was  in  his  mouth ; 

And  he  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 
The  smoke,  now  west,  now  south. 

31 


Then  up  and  spake  an  old  sailor. 

Had  sailed  the  Spanish  main : 

“ I pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port, 

For  I fear  a hurricane. 

“Last  night  the  moon  had  a golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  ! ” 

The  skipper  he  blew  a whiff  from  his  pipe, 
And  a scornful  laugh  laughed  he. 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A gale  from  the  northeast ; 

The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  frothed  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 
The  vessel  in  its  strength ; 

She  shuddered  and  paused  like  a frighted  steed, 
Then  leaped  her  cable’s  length. 

“ Come  hither ! come  hither ! my  little  daugh- 
ter, 

And  do  not  tremble  so ; 

For  I can  weather  the  roughest  gale 
That  ever  wind  did  blow.” 

He  wrapped  her  warm  in  his  seaman’s  coat 
Against  the  stinging  blast ; 

He  cut  a rope  from  a broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

“ 0 father ! I hear  the  church-bells  ring ; 

O say,  what  may  it  be?” 

“ ’T  is  a fog-bell  on  a rock-bound  coast ! ” 

And  he  steered  for  the  open  sea. 

“ 0 father ! I hear  the  sound  of  guns ; 

0 say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

“ Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 
In  such  an  angry  sea ! ” 

“ O father ! I see  a gleaming  light ; 

O say,  what  may  it  be  ? ” 

But  the  father  answered  never  a word — 

A frozen  corpse  was  he. 


482 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Lashed  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

With  his  face  turned  to  the  skies, 

The  lantern  gleamed  through  the  gleaming 
snow 

On  his  fixed  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and 
prayed 

That  saved  she  might  he ; 

And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  stilled  the 
wave 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and 
drear, 

Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 
Like  a sheeted  ghost,  the  vessel  swept 
Towards  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe. 

And  ever,  the  fitful  gusts  between, 

A sound  came  from  the  land ; 

It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf 
On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows ; 

She  drifted  a dreary  wreck ; 

And  a whooping  billow  swept  the  crew, 

Like  icicles,  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 
Looked  soft  as  carded  wool ; 

But  the  cruel  rocks  they  gored  her  side 
Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheathed  in  ice, 

With  the  mast  went  by  the  board ; 

Like  a vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank — 
Ho ! ho ! the  breakers  roared ! 

At  daybreak,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A fisherman  stood  aghast, 

To  see  the  form  of  a maiden  fair, 

Lashed  close  to  a drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes ; 

And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed, 
On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ; 

Christ  save  us  all  from  a death  like  this, 

On  the  reef  of  Norman’s  Woe ! 

Hen'ey  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  MARINER’S  DREAM. 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy  lay; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of 
the  wind ; 

But  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew 
away, 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o’er  his 
mind. 

X 

He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native 
bowers, 

And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life’s  merry 
morn ; 

While  memory  stood  sideways  half  covered 
with  flowers, 

And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its 
thorn. 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 

And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy 
rise ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters 
glide, 

And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his 
eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flowers  o’er  the 
thatch, 

And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her 
nest  in  the  wall ; 

All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises  the 
latch, 

And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his 
call. 

A father  bends  o’er  him  with  looks  of  de- 
light; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a mother’s  warm 
tear; 

And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom 
holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his 
breast ; 

Joy  quickens  his  pulses — his  hardships  seem 
o’er ; 


HOW’S  MY  BOY. 


And  a murmur  of  happiness  steals  through 
his  rest — 

“ 0 God ! thou  hast  blest  me — I ask  for  no 
more.” 

Ah ! whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts 
on  his  eye  ? 

Ah  ! what  is  that  sound  which  now  ’larms 
on  his  ear  ? 

’T  is  the  lightning’s  red  gleam,  painting  hell 
on  the  sky ! 

’T  is  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of 
the  sphere ! 

He  springs  from  his  hammock — he  flies  to 
the  deck ; 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images 
dire; 

Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel 
a wreck ; 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters ; the  shrouds  are 
on  fire. 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously 
swell ; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  Mercy  to 
save ; 

Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wings 
o’er  the  wave ! 

O,  sailor  boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight ! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work 
of  bliss. 

Where  now  is  the  picture  that  Fancy  touched 
bright — 

Thy  parents’  fond  pressure,  and  love’s 
honeyed  kiss  ? 

0,  sailor  boy ! sailor  boy ! never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred,  thy  wishes 
repay ; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  the 
main, 

Full  many  a fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

Ho  tomb  shall  e’er  plead  to  remembrance  for 
thee, 

Or  redeem  form  or  fame  from  the  merciless 
surge ; 


483 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  wind- 
ing-sheet be, 

And  winds  in  the  midnight  of  winter  thy 
dirge ! 

On  a bed  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs  shall 
be  laid — 

Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall 
grow; 

Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be 
made, 

And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  shall  circle 
away, 

And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall 
roll; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye — 

O,  sailor  boy ! sailor  boy ! peace  to  thy 
soul ! 

William  Dimond. 


HOW’S  MY  BOY? 

“ Ho,  sailor  of  the  sea ! 

How ’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? ” 

“ What ’s  your  boy’s  name,  good  wife, 

And  in  what  good  ship  sailed  he  ? ” 

“ My  boy  John — 

He  that  went  to  sea — 

What  care  I for  the  ship,  sailor  ? 

My  boy’s  my  boy  to  me. 

“ You  come  back  from  sea, 

And  not  know  my  John  ? 

I might  as  well  have  asked  some  lands- 
man, 

Yonder  down  in  the  town. 

There ’s  not  an  ass  in  all  the  parish 
But  knows  my  John. 

“ How ’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

And  unless  you  let  me  know 
I ’ll  swear  you  are  no  sailor, 

Blue  jacket  or  no — 

Brass  buttons  or  no,  sailor, 

Anchor  and  crown  or  no — 


484  POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 

Sure  his  ship  was  the  ‘Jolly  Briton’  ” — 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

“ Speak  low,  woman,  speak  low  ! ” 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 

“And  why  should  I speak  low,  sailor. 

Shall  give,  to  call  life’s  crew  together, 
The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 

About  my  own  hoy  John? 

Thus  Death,  who  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

If  I was  loud  as  I am  proud 

In  vain  Tom’s  life  has  doffed ; 

I ’d  sing  him  over  the  town ! 

For,  though  his  body’s  under  hatches, 

Why  should  I speak  low,  sailor  ? ” — 

His  soul  is  gone  aloft. 

Chables  Dibdin. 

“That  good  ship  went  down.” 

“ How ’s  my  hoy — my  boy  ? 

What  care  I for  the  ship,  sailor — 

THE  MOON  WAS  A- WANING. 

I was  never  aboard  her. 

Be  she  afloat  or  be  she  aground, 

The  moon  was  a- waning, 

Sinking  or  swimming,  I ’ll  be  bound 

The  tempest  was  over ; 

Her  owners  can  afford  her ! 

Fair  was  the  maiden, 

I say,  how ’s  my  John  ? ” — 

And  fond  was  the  lover ; 

“ Every  man  on  board  went  down, 

But  the  snow  was  so  deep 

Every  man  aboard  her.” 

That  his  heart  it  grew  weary ; 

“ How ’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

And  he  sunk  down  to  sleep, 
In  the  moorland  so  dreary. 

What  care  I for  the  men,  sailor? 
I ’m  not  their  mother — 

Soft  was  the  bed 

How ’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? 

She  had  made  for  her  lover, 

Tell  me  of  him  and  no  other ! 

White  were  the  sheets 

How ’s  my  boy — my  boy  ? ” 

And  embroidered  the  cover ; 

Sydney  Dobell. 

But  his  sheets  are  more  white, 

♦ 

And  his  canopy  grander ; 
And  sounder  he  sleeps 

TOM  BOWLING. 

Where  the  hill  foxes  wander.  , 

Heee,  a sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

Alas,  pretty  maiden, 

What  sorrows  attend  you! 

The  darling  of  our  crew ; 

I see  you  sit  shivering, 

No  more  he  ’ll  hear  the  tempest  howling — 

With  lights  at  your  window ; 

For  Death  has  broached  him  to. 

But  long  may  you  wait 

His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty ; 

Ere  your  arms  shall  enclose  him ; 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 

For  still,  still  he  lies, 

Faithful  below,  he  did  his  duty ; 

With  a wreath  on  his  bosom ! 

But  now  he ’s  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed — 

How  painful  the  task 
The  sad  tidings  to  tell  you  !-~ 

His  virtues  were  so  rare ; 

An  orphan  you  were 

His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted ; 

Ere  this  misery  befell  you ; 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair. 

And  far  in  yon  wild, 

And  then  he ’d  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly — 

Where  the  dead-tapers  hover, 

Ah,  many’s  the  time  and  oft ! 

So  cold,  cold  and  wan, 

But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 

Lies  the  corpse  of  your  lover ! 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

James  Hogg. 

THE  DREAM  OF 


THE  DREAM  OF  EUGENE  ARAM. 

’T  was  in  the  prime  of  summer  time, 

An  evening  calm  and  cool, 

And  four-and-twenty  happy  hoys 
Came  hounding  out  of  school ; 

There  were  some  that  ran  and  some  that 
leapt, 

Like  troutlets  in  a pool. 

Away  they  sped  with  gamesome  minds, 
And  souls  untouched  hy  sin ; 

To  a level  mead  they  came,  and  there 
They  drave  the  wickets  in : 

Pleasantly  shone  the  setting  sun 
Over  the  town  of  Lynn. 

Like  sportive  deer  they  coursed  about, 

And  shouted  as  they  ran — 

Turning  to  mirth  all  things  of  earth, 

As  only  boyhood  can ; 

But  the  Usher  sat  remote  from  all, 

A melancholy  man ! 

His  hat  was  off,  his  vest  apart, 

To  catch  heaven’s  blessed  breeze ; 

For  a burning  thought  was  in  his  brow, 
And  his  bosom  ill  at  ease ; 

So  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and 
read 

The  book  between  his  knees ! 

Leaf  after  leaf  he  turned  it  o’er, 

Nor  ever  glanced  aside ; 

For  the  peaee  of  his  soul  he  read  that  book 
In  the  golden  eventide ; 

Much  study  had  made  him  very  lean, 

And  pale,  and  leaden- eyed. 

At  last  he  shut  the  ponderous  tome ; 

With  a fast  and  fervent  grasp 
He  strained  the  dusky  covers  close, 

And  fixed  the  brazen  hasp  : 

*'  O,  God ! could  I so  close  my  mind, 

And  clasp  it  with  a clasp ! ” 

Then  leaping  on  his  feet  upright, 

Some  moody  turns  he  took — 


EUGENE  ARAM.  485 

Now  up  the  mead,  then  down  the  mead, 
And  past  a shady  nook — 

And,  lo ! he  saw  a little  boy 
That  pored  upon  a book ! 

“My  gentle  lad,  what  is ’t  you  read- 
Romance  or  fairy  fable  ? 

Or  is  it  some  historic  page, 

Of  kings  and  crowns  unstable  ? ” 

The  young  boy  gave  an  upward  glance— 

“ It  is  ‘ The  Death  of  Abel.’  ” 

The  Usher  took  six  hasty  strides, 

As  smit  with  sudden  pain — 

Six  hasty  strides  beyond  the  place, 

Then  slowly  back  again ; 

And  down  he  sat  beside  the  lad, 

And  talked  with  him  of  Cain ; 

And,  long  since  then,  of  bloody  men, 
Whose  deeds  tradition  saves ; 

And  lonely  folk  cut  off  unseen, 

And  hid  in  sudden  graves ; 

And  horrid  stabs,  in  groves  forlorn, 

And  murders  done  in  caves ; 

And  how  the  sprites  of  injured  men 
Shriek  upward  from  the  sod ; 

Aye,  how  the  ghostly  hand  will  point 
To  show  the  burial  clod ; 

And  unknown  facts  of  guilty  acts 
Are  seen  in  dreams  from  God ! 

He  told  how  murderers  walk  the  earth 
Beneath  the  curse  of  Cain — 

With  crimson  clouds  before  their  eyes, 
And  flames  about  their  brain ; 

For  blood  has  left  upon  their  souls 
Its  everlasting  stain ! 

“And  well,”  quoth  he,  “I  know,  for 
truth, 

Their  pangs  must  be  extreme — 

Woe,  woe,  unutterable  woe — 

Who  spill  life’s  sacred  stream ! 

For  why  ? Methought,  last  night  I wrought 
A murder,  in  a dream ! 


486 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


“ One  that  had  never  done  me  wrong— 
A feeble  man  and  old ; 

I led  him  to  a lonely  field — 

The  moon  shone  clear  and  cold : 

Now  here,  said  I,  this  man  shall  die, 

And  I will  have  his  gold ! 

“ Two  sudden  blows  with  a ragged  stick, 
And  one  with  a heavy  stone, 

One  hurried  gash  with  a hasty  knife — 
And  then  the  deed  was  done : 

There  was  nothing  lying  at  my  feet 
But  lifeless  flesh  and  bone ! 

44  Nothing  but  lifeless  flesh  and  bone, 
That  could  not  do  me  ill ; 

And  yet  I feared  him  all  the  more, 

For  lying  there  so  still : 

There  was  a manhood  in  his  look, 

That  murder  could  not  kill! 

44  And,  lo ! the  universal  air 
Seemed  lit  with  ghastly  flame ; — 

Ten  thousand  thousand  dreadful  eyes 
Were  looking  down  in  blame; 

I took  the  dead  man  by  his  hand, 

And  called  upon  his  name ! 

44  0 God ! it  made  me  quake  to  see 
Such  sense  within  the  slain ! 

But  when  I touched  the  lifeless  clay, 

The  blood  gushed  out  amain ! 

For  every  clot  a burning  spot 
Was  scorching  in  my  brain ! 

“ My  head  was  like  an  ardent  coal — 

My  heart  as  solid  ice ; 

My  wretched,  wretched  soul,  I knew, 
Was  at  the  Devil’s  price. 

A dozen  times  I groaned — the  dead 
Had  never  groaned  but  twice ! 

“And  now,  from  forth  the  frowning  sky, 
From  the  Heaven’s  topmost  height, 

I heard  a voice — the  awful  voice 
Of  the  blood-avenging  sprite : 

4 Thou  guilty  man ! take  up  thy  dead, 
And  hide  it  from  my  sight ! ’ 


“ And  I took  the  dreary  body  up, 

And  cast  it  in  a stream — 

The  sluggish  water,  black  as  ink, 

The  depth  was  so  extreme : 

My  gentle  Boy,  remember ! this 
Is  nothing  but  a dream ! 

“Down  went  the  corse  with  a hollow 
plunge, 

And  vanished  in  the  pool ; 

Anon  I cleansed  my  bloody  hands, 

And  washed  my  forehead  cool, 

And  sat  among  the  urchins  young, 

That  evening  in  the  school. 

“ 0 Heaven ! to  think  of  their  white  souls, 
And  mine  so  black  and  grim ! 

I could  not  share  in  childish  prayer, 

Nor  join  in  evening  hymn ; 

Like  a devil  of  the  pit  I seemed, 

’Mid  holy  cherubim ! 

“ And  peace  went  with  them,  one  and  all, 
And  each  calm  pillow  spread ; 

But  Guilt  was  my  grim  chamberlain, 

That  lighted  me  to  bed, 

And  drew  my  midnight  curtains  round 
With  fingers  bloody  red ! 

“ All  night  I lay  in  agony, 

In  anguish  dark  and  deep  ; 

My  fevered  eyes  I dared  not  close, 

But  stared  aghast  at  Sleep ; 

For  Sin  had  rendered  unto  her 
The  keys  of  hell  to  keep ! 

“ All  night  I lay  in  agony, 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ; 

With  one  besetting  horrid  hint, 

That  racked  me  all  the  time — 

A mighty  yearning,  like  the  first 
Fierce  impulse  unto  crime — 

“ One  stern  tyrannic  thought,  that  made 
All  other  thoughts  its  slave ! 

Stronger  and  stronger  every  pulse 
Did  that  temptation  crave — 

Still  urging  me  to  go  and  see 
The  dead  man  in  his  grave ! 


YOUNG  AIRLY. 


487 


“ Heavily  I rose  up,  as  soon 
As  light  was  in  the  sky, 

And  sought  the  black  accursed  pool 
With  a wild  misgiving  eye; 

And  I saw  the  dead  in  the  river  bed, 

For  the  faithless  stream  was  dry. 

“ Merrily  rose  the  lark,  and  shook 
The  dew-drop  from  its  wing ; 

But  I never  marked  its  morning  flight — 

I never  heard  it  sing ; 

For  I was  stooping  once  again 
Under  the  horrid  thing. 

“With  breathless  speed,  like  a soul  in  chase, 
I took  him  up  and  ran ; 

There  was  no  time  to  dig  a grave 
Before  the  day  began — 

In  a lonesome  wood,  with  heaps  of  leaves, 
I hid  the  murdered  man ! 

“And  all  that  day  I read  in  school, 

But  my  thought  was  other  where ; 

As  soon  as  the  mid-day  task  was  done, 

In  secret  I was  there — 

And  a mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare ! 

“ Then  down  I cast  me  on  my  face, 

And  first  began  to  weep, 

For  I knew  my  secret  then  was  one 
That  earth  refused  to  keep — 

Or  land  or  sea,  though  he  should  be 
Ten  thousand  fathoms  deep. 

“ So  wills  the  fierce  avenging  sprite, 

Till  blood  for  blood  atones ! 

Aye,  though  he ’s  buried  in  a cave, 

And  trodden  down  with  stones, 

And  years  have  rotted  off  his  flesh — 

The  world  shall  see  his  bones ! 

“ 0 God ! that  horrid,  horrid  dream 
Besets  me  now  awake ! 

Again — again,  with  dizzy  brain, 

The  human  life  I take ; 

And  my  red  right  hand  grows  raging  hot, 
Like  Cranmer’s  at  the  stake. 


“And  still  no  peace  for  the  restless  clay 
Will  wave  or  mould  allow ; 

The  horrid  thing  pursues  my  soul — 

It  stands  before  me  now ! ” 

The  fearful  boy  looked  up,  and  saw 
Huge  drops  upon  his  brow. 

That  very  night,  while  gentle  sleep 
The  urchin’s  eyelids  kissed, 

Two  stern-faced  men  set  out  from  Lynn 
Through  the  cold  and  heavy  mist ; 

And  Eugene  Aram  walked  between, 
With  gyves  upon  his  wrist. 

Thomas  Hood. 


YOUNG  AIRLY. 

Ken  ye  ought  of  brave  Lochiel  ? 

Or  ken  ye  ought  of  Airly  ? 

They  have  belted  on  their  bright  broad  swords, 
And  off  and  awa’  wi’  Charlie. 

Now  bring  me  fire,  my  merry,  merry  men, 
And  bring  it  red  and  yarely — 

At  mirk  midnight  there  flashed  a light 
O’er  the  topmost  towers  of  Airly. 

What  lowe  is  yon,  quo’  the  gude  Lochiel, 
Which  gleams  so  red  and  rarely  ? 

By  the  God  of  my  kin,  quo’  young  Ogilvie, 

It ’s  my  ain  bonnie  hame  of  Airly ! 

Put  up  your  sword,  said  the  brave  Lochiel, 
And  calm  your  mood,  quo’  Charlie ; 

Ere  morning  glow  we  ’ll  raise  a lowe 
Far  brighter  than  bonnie  Airly. 

0,  yon  fair  tower ’s  my  native  tower ! 

Nor  will  it  soothe  my  mourning, 

Were  London  palace,  tower,  and  town, 

As  fast  and  brightly  burning. 

It ’s  no  my  hame — my  father’s  hame, 

That  reddens  my  cheek  sae  sairlie — 

But  my  wife,  and  twa  sweet  babes  I left 
To  smoor  in  the  smoke  of  Airly. 

Anonymous. 


488 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


A SNOW-STORM. 

SCENE  IN  A VERMONT  WINTER. 

l. 

’T  is  a fearful  night  in  the  winter  time, 

As  cold  as  it  ever  can  he ; 

The  roar  of  the  blast  is  heard  like  the  chime 
Of  the  waves  on  an  angry  sea. 

The  moon  is  full ; hut  her  silver  light 
| The  storm  dashes  out  with  its  wings  to-night ; 
i And  over  the  sky  from  south  to  north 
j Not  a star  is  seen,  as  the  wind  comes  forth 
In  the  strength  of  a mighty  glee. 

n. 

All  day  had  the  snow  come  down — all  day 
As  it  never  came  down  before ; 

And  over  the  hills,  at  sun-set,  lay 
Some  two  or  three  feet,  or  more ; 

The  fence  was  lost,  and  the  wall  of  stone ; 
The  windows  blocked  and  the  well-curbs 
gone; 

I The  haystack  had  grown  to  a mountain  lift, 
And  the  wood-pile  looked  like  a monster 
drift, 

As  it  lay  by  the  farmer’s  door. 

| The  night  sets  in  on  a world  of  snow, 

While  the  air  grows  sharp  and  chill, 

I And  the  warning  roar  of  a fearful  blow 
Is  heard  on  the  distant  hill ; 

And  the  Norther,  see ! on  the  mountain  peak 
In  his  breath  how  the  old  trees  writhe  and 
shriek! 

| He  shouts  on  the  plain,  ho-ho ! ho-ho ! 

He  drives  from  his  nostrils  the  blinding  snow, 
And  growls  •with  a savage  will. 

m. 

Such  a night  as  this  to  he  found  abroad, 

In  the  drifts  and  the  freezing  air, 

Sits  a shivering  dog,  in  the  field,  by  the  road, 
With  the  snow  in  his  shaggy  hair. 

He  shuts  his  eyes  to  the  wind  and  growls ; 
He  lifts  his  head,  and  moans  and  howls ; 
Then  crouching  low,  from  the  cutting  sleet, 
His  nose  is  pressed  on  his  quivering  feet — 
Pray  what  does  the  dog  do  there  ? 


A farmer  came  from  the  village  plain — 

But  he  lost  the  travelled  way ; 

And  for  hours  he  trod  with  might  and  main 
A path  for  his  horse  and  sleigh ; 

But  colder  still  the  cold  winds  blew, 

And  deeper  still  the  deep  drifts  grew, 

And  his  mare,  a beautiful  Morgan  brown, 

At  last  in  her  struggles  floundered  down, 
Where  a log  in  a hollow  lay. 

In  vain,  with  a neigh  and  a frenzied  snort, 
She  plunged  in  the  drifting  snow, 

While  her  master  urged,  till  his  breath  grew 
short, 

With  a word  and  a gentle  blow ; 

But  the  snow  was  deep,  and  the  tugs  were 
tight; 

His  hands  were  numb  and  had  lost  their 
might ; 

So  he  wallowed  back  to  his  half-filled  sleigh, 
And  strove  to  shelter  himself  till  day, 

With  his  coat  and  the  buffalo. 

IV. 

He  has  given  the  last  faint  jerk  of  the  rein, 
To  rouse  up  his  dying  steed ; 

And  the  poor  dog  howls  to  the  blast  in  vain 
For  help  in  his  master’s  need. 

For  a while  he  strives  with  a wistful  cry 
To  catch  a glance  from  his  drowsy  eye, 

And  wags  his  tail  if  the  rude  winds  flap 
The  skirt  of  the  buffalo  over  his  lap, 

And  whines  when  he  takes  no  heed. 

v. 

The  wind  goes  down  and  the  storm  is  o’er — 
’T  is  the  hour  of  midnight,  past ; 

The  old  trees  writhe  and  bend  no  more 
In  the  whirl  of  the  rushing  blast. 

The  silent  moon  with  her  peaceful  light 
Looks  down  on  the  hills  with  snow  all  white  j 
And  the  giant  shadow  of  Camel’s  Hump, 

The  blasted  pine  and  the  ghostly  stump, 

Afar  on  the  plain  are  cast. 

But  cold  and  dead  by  the  hidden  log 
Are  they  who  came  from  the  town — 

The  man  in  his  sleigh,  and  his  faithful  dog, 
And  his  beautiful  Morgan  brown — 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 


489 


In  the  wide  snow-desert,  far  and  grand, 

With  his  cap  on  his  head  and  the  reins  in  his 
hand — 

The  dog  with  his  nose  on  his  master’s  feet, 
And  the  mare  half  seen  through  the  crusted 
sleet, 

Where  she  lay  when  she  floundered  down. 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 


THE  HUNTER’S  VISION. 

Upon  a rock  that,  high  and  sheer, 

Rose  from  the  mountain’s  breast, 

A weary  hunter  of  the  deer 
Had  sat  him  down  to  rest, 

And  bared  to  the  soft- summer  air 
His  hot  red  brow  and  sweaty  hair. 

All  dim  in  haze  the  mountains  lay, 

With  dimmer  vales  between ; 

And  rivers  glimmered  on  their  way, 

By  forests  faintly  seen ; 

While  ever  rose  a murmuring  sound, 

From  brooks  below  and  bees  around. 

He  listened,  till  he  seemed  to  hear 
A strain,  so  soft  and  low 
That  whether  in  the  mind  or  ear 
The  listener  scarce  might  know ; 

With  such  a tone,  so  sweet,  so  mild, 

The  watching  mother  lulls  her  child. 

“Thou  weary  huntsman,”  thus  it  said, 
“Thou  faint  with  toil  and  heat, 

The  pleasant  land  of  rest  is  spread 
Before  thy  very  feet, 

And  those  whom  thou  wouldst  gladly  see 
Are  waiting  there  to  welcome  thee.” 

He  looked,  and  ’twixt  the  earth  and  sky 
Amid  the  noontide  haze, 

A shadowy  region  met  his  eye, 

And  grew  beneath  his  gaze, 

As  if  the  vapors  of  the  air 
Had  gathered  into  shapes  so  fair. 


Groves  freshened  as  he  looked,  and  flowers 
Showed  bright  on  rocky  hank, 

And  fountains  welled  beneath  the  bowers, 
Where  deer  and  pheasant  drank. 

He  saw  the  glittering  streams ; he  heard 
The  rustling  bough  and  twittering  bird. 

And  friends,  the  dead,  in  boyhood  dear, 
There  lived  and  walked  again ; 

And  there  was  one  who  many  a year 
Within  her  grave  had  lain, 

A fair  young  girl,  the  hamlet’s  pride — 

His  heart  was  breaking  when  she  died. 

Bounding,  as  was  her  wont,  she  came 
Right  towards  his  resting  place, 

And  stretched  her  hand  and  called  his  name, 
With  that  sweet  smiling  face. 

Forward  with  fixed  and  eager  eyes, 

The  hunter  leaned  in  act  to  rise : 

Forward  he  leaned — and  headlong  down 
Plunged  from  that  craggy  wall ; 

He  saw  the  rocks,  steep,  stern,  and  brown, 
An  instant,  in  his  fall — 

A frightful  instant,  and  no  more ; 

The  dream  and  life  at  once  were  o’er. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


SOFTLY  WOO  AWAY  HER  BREATH. 

Softly  woo  away  her  breath, 

Gentle  Death ! 

Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 
Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  Life ! 

She  hath  seen  her  happy  day — 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom ; 

Now  she  pales  and  shrinks  away, 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosoip ! 

She  hath  done  her  bidding  here, 

Angels  dear ! 

Bear  her  perfect  soul  above, 

Seraph  of  the  skies — sweet  Love ! 

Good  she  was,  and  fair  in  youth ; 

And  her  mind  was  seen  to  soar, 

And  her  heart  was  wed  to  truth : 

Take  her,  then,  for  evermore — 

For  ever — evermore! 


Barry  Cornwall. 


490 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

i. 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear ; 

To-morrow  ’ll  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the 
glad  New-year — 

Of  all  the  glad  New-year,  mother,  the  mad- 
dest, merriest  day ; 

For  I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m 
to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

n. 

There ’s  many  a black,  black  eye,  they  say, 
hut  none  so  bright  as  mine ; 

There’s  Margaret  and  Mary,  there’s  Kate 
and  Caroline ; 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land, 
they  say : 

So  I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I ’m 
to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

nr. 

I sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I shall 
never  wake, 

If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  be- 
gins to  break ; 

But  I must  gather  knots  of  flowers  and  buds, 
and  garlands  gay ; 

For  I’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

IV. 

As  I came  up  the  valley,  whom  think  ye 
should  I see, 

But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the 
hazel-tree  ? 

He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I gave 
him  yesterday, — 

But  I’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

v. 

He  thought  I was  a ghost,  mother,  for  I was 
all  in  white ; 

And  I ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a 
flash  of  light. 


They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  hut  I care  not 
what  they  say, 

For  I’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 

I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

vi. 

They  say  he’s  dying  all  for  love — hut  tha 
can  never  he ; 

They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what 
is  that  to  me  ? 

There ’s  many  a holder  lad  ’ll  woo  me  any 
summer  day; 

And  I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

vn. 

Little  Effie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to 
the  green, 

And  you  ’ll  he  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me 
made  the  Queen ; 

For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  ’ll  come 
from  far  away, 

And  I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

VIII. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven 
its  wavy  bowers, 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint 
sweet  cuckoo-flowers ; 

And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire 
in  swamps  and  hollows  gray, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May. 

IX. 

The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon 
the  meadow-grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to 
brighten  as  they  pass ; 

There  will  not  be  a drop  of  rain  the  whole  of 
the  livelong  day, 

And  I’m  to  be  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother,  I’m 
to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

x. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  ’ill  be  fresh  and  green 
and  still, 

. And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over 
all  the  hill, 


j 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


491 


And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  ’ill  mer- 
rily glance  and  play, 

For  I’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 

XI. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 
early,  mother  dear, 

To-morrow  ’ill  he  the  happiest  time  of  all  the 
glad  New-year : 

To-morrow  ’ill  he  of  all  the  year  the  maddest, 
merriest  day, 

For  I’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May,  mother, 
I ’m  to  he  Queen  o’  the  May. 


new  yeab’s  eve. 

i. 

If  you  ’re  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear, 

For  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad 
Nfew-year. 

It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I shall  ever  see — 

Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i’  the  mould,  and 
think  no  more  of  me. 

ii. 

To-night  I saw  the  sun  set — he  set  and  left 
behind 

The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all 
my  peace  of  mind ; 

And  the  New-year ’s  coming  up,  mother ; hut 
I shall  never  see 

The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon 
the  tree. 

hi. 

Last  May  we  made  a crown  of  flowers ; we 
had  a merry  day — 

Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they 
made  me  Queen  of  May  ; 

And  we  danced  about  the  May -pole  and  in 
the  hazel  copse, 

Till  Charles’s  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall 
white  chimney-tops. 


IV. 

There ’s  not  a flower  on  all  the  hills — the  frost 
is  on  the  pane ; 

I only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come 
again. 

I wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come 
out  on  high — 

I long  to  see  a flower  so  before  the  day  I die. 

v. 

The  building  rook  ’ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall 
elm-tree, 

And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow 
lea, 

And  the  swallow  ’ill  come  hack  again  with 
summer  o’er  the  wave, 

But  I shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the 
mouldering  grave. 

VI. 

Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that 
grave  of  mine, 

In  the  early,  early  morning  the  summer  sun  ’ill 
shine, 

Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  up- 
on the  hill — 

When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all 
the  world  is  still. 

VII. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  be- 
neath the  waning  light 

You  ’ll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray 
fields  at  night ; 

When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer 
airs  blow  cool 

On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the 
bulrush  in  the  pool. 

VIII. 

You  ’ll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the 
hawthorn  shade, 

And  you  ’ll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where 
I am  lowly  laid. 

I shall  not  forget  you,  mother ; I shall  hear 
you  when  you  pass, 

With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long 
and  pleasant  grass. 


492 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


I have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you’ll 
forgive  me  now ; 

You’ll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  upon  my 
cheek  and  brow ; 

Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your 
grief  be  wild ; 

You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother — you 
have  another  child. 

x. 

If  I can,  I ’ll  come  again,  mother,  from  out 
my  resting-place ; 

Though  you  ’ll  not  see  me,  mother,  I shall 
look  upon  your  face ; 

Though  I cannot  speak  a word,  I shall  hearken 
what  you  say, 

And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think 
I ’m  far  away. 

XI. 

| Good-night!  good-night!  when  I have  said 
good-night  for  evermore, 

I And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold 
of  the  door, 

! Do  n’t  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave 
be  growing  green — 

She  ’ll  be  a better  child  to  you  than  ever  I 
have  been. 

XII. 

She  ’ll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary 
floor. 

I Let  her  take  ’em — they  are  hers ; I shall  never 
garden  more. 

But  tell  her,  when  I ’m  gone,  to  train  the 
rose-bush  that  I set 

About  the  parlor-window,  and  the  box  of 
mignonette. 

XIII. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother ! Call  me  before 
the  day  is  born. 

All  night  I lie  awake,  but  I fall  asleep  at 
morn ; 

But  I would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad 
New-year — 

So,  if  you  ’re  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear. 


CONCLUSION, 

i. 

I thought  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive 
I am ; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I hear  the  bleating 
of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I remember,  rose  the  morning  of 
the  year ! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now 
the  violet ’s  here. 

ii. 

O sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath 
the  skies ; 

And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb’s  voice  to  me 
that  cannot  rise  ; 

And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the 
flowers  that  blow ; 

And  sweeter  far  Is  death  than  life,  to  me  that 
long  to  go. 

hi. 

It  seemed  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave 
the  blessed  sun, 

And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay ; and  yet, 
His  will  be  done ! 

But  still  I think  it  can ’t  be  long  before  I find 
release ; 

And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told 
me  words  of  peace. 

iv. 

O blessings  on  his  kindly  voice,  and  on  his 
silver  hair ! 

And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he 
meet  me  there ! 

O blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his 
silver  head ! 

A thousand  times  I blest  him,  as  he  knelt  be- 
side my  bed. 

v. 

He  showed  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  taught 
me  all  the  sin ; 

Now,  though  my  lamp  was  lighted  late, 
there ’s  One  will  let  me  in. 

Nor  would  I now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if 
that  could  be ; 

For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died 
for  me. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


VI. 

I did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the 
death-watch  heat — 

There  came  a sweeter  token  when  the  night 
and  morning  meet ; 

But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your 
hand  in  mine, 

And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I will  tell 
the  sign. 

YII. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  the 
angels  call — 

It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the 
dark  was  over  all ; 

The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  be- 
gan to  roll, 

And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I heard  them 
call  my  soul. 

vm. 

For  lying  broad  awake,  I thought  of  you  and 
Effie  dear ; 

saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I no  longer 
here ; 

With  all  my  strength  I prayed  for  both — and 
so  I felt  resigned, 

And  up  the  valley  came  a swell  of  music  on 
the  wind. 

IX. 

I thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I listened  in 
my  bed ; 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I know 
not  what  was  said ; 

For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold 
of  all  my  mind, 

And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on 
the  wind. 

x. 

But  you  were  sleeping;  and  I said,  “It’s  not 
for  them — it ’s  mine ; ” 

And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I thought,  I take 
it  for  a sign. 

And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the 
window-bars — 

Then  seemed  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and 
die  among  the  stars. 


493 


XI. 

So  now  I think  my  time  is  near ; I trust  it  is. 
I know 

The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul 
will  have  to  go. 

And  for  myself,  indeed,  I care  not  if  I go  to- 
day; 

But  Effie,  you  must  comfort  her  when  I am 
past  away. 

XII. 

And  say  to  Robin  a kind  word,  and  tell  him 
not  to  fret ; 

There ’s  many  worthier  than  I would  make 
him  happy  yet. 

If  I had  lived — I cannot  tell — I might  have 
been  his  wife ; 

But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with 
my  desire  of  life. 

XIII. 

0 look ! the  sun  begins  to  rise ! the  heavens 
are  in  a glow ; 

He  shines  upon  a hundred  fields,  and  all  ot 
them  I know. 

And  there  I move  no  longer  now,  and  there 
his  light  may  shine — 

Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands 
than  mine. 

XIV. 

0 sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere 
this  day  is  done 

The  voice  that  now  is  speaking  may  be  be- 
yond the  sun — 

For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls 
and  true — 

And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ? why 
make  we  such  ado  ? 

xv. 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a blessed  home, 

And  there  to  wait  a little  while  till  you  and 
Effie  come — 

To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I lie  upon 
your  breast — 

And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and 
the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Alfbbd  Tennyson. 


494 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


THE  NYMPH  COMPLAINING  FOR  THE 
DEATH  OF  HER  FAWN. 

The  wanton  troopers,  riding  by, 

Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 

Ungentle  men ! they  cannot  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.  Thou  ne’er  didst,  alive, 
Them  any  harm;  alas!  nor  could 
Thy  death  yet  do  them  any  good. 

I ’m  sure  I never  wished  them  ill — 

Nor  do  I for  all  this,  nor  will ; 

But,  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 
Prevail  with  Heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I will  join  my  tears, 

Rather  than  fail.  But,  O my  fears ! 

It  cannot  die  so.  Heaven’s  King 
Keeps  register  of  every  thing ; 

And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain ; 

Even  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain — 

Else  men  are  made  their  deodands. 

Though  they  should  wash  their  guilty  hands 
In  this  warm  life-blood,  which  doth  part 
From  thine  and  wound  me  to  the  heart, 

Yet  could  they  not  be  clean — their  stain 
Is  dyed  in  such  a purple  grain ; 

There  is  not  such  another  in 
The  world  to  offer  for  their  sin. 

Inconstant  Sylvio ! when  yet 
I had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 

One  morning  (I  remember  well), 

Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 

Gave  it  to  me ; nay,  and  I know 
What  he  said  then — I ’m  sure  I do : 

Said  he,  “Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a Fawn  to  hunt  his  dear ! ” 

But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled — 

This  waxed  tame,  while  he  grew  wild ; 

And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart, 

Left  me  his  fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 

Thenceforth,  I set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away, 

With  this ; and,  very  well  content, 

Could  so  mine  idle  life  have  spent. 

For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot  and  heart,  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game.  It  seemed  to  bless 
Itself  in  me ; how  could  I less 
Than  love  it  ? 01  cannot  be 

Unkind  t’  a beast  that  loveth  me. 


Had  it  lived  long,  I do  not  know 
Whether  it,  too,  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did — his  gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 

For  I am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a time  espy, 

Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 

With  sweetest  milk,  and  sugar,  first 
I it  at  mine  own  fingers  nursed ; 

And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 
It  waxed  more  white  and  sweet  than  they. 
It  had  so  sweet  a breath ! and  oft 
I blushed  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 
And  white — shall  I say  than  my  hand  ? 
Nay,  any  lady’s  of  the  land. 

It  is  a wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
’T  was  on  those  little  silver  feet ! 

With  what  a pretty,  skipping  grace 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race ! 

And  when ’t  had  left  me  far  away, 

’T  would  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay ; 
For  it  was  nimbler,  much,  than  hinds, 

And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I have  a garden  of  my  own — 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 
To  be  a little  wilderness ; 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 
It  only  loved  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie  ; 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes ; 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies’  shade 
It  like  a bank  of  lilies  laid. 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 

Until  its  lips  ev’n  seemed  to  bleed ; 

And  then  to  me ’t  would  boldly  trip, 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill ; 

And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 

Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

0 help ! 0 help ! I see  it  faint, 

And  die  as  calmly  as  a saint ! 

See  how  it  weeps ! the  tears  do  come, 

Sad,  slowly,  dropping  like  a gum. 

So  weeps  the  wounded  balsam ; so 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 


490 


The  holy  frankincense  doth  flow  ; 

The  brotherless  Heliades 

Melt  in  such  amber  tears  as  these. 

I in  a golden  vial  will 
Keep  these  two  crystal  tears ; and  fill 
It,  till  it  do  o’erflow,  with  mine ; 

Then  place  it  in  Diana’s  shrine. 

Now  my  sweet  Fawn  is  vanished  to 
Whither  the  swans  and  turtles  go ; 

In  fair  Elysium  to  endure, 

With  milk-white  lambs,  and  ermins  pure. 

O do  not  run  too  fast ! for  I 
Will  hut  bespeak  thy  grave,  and  die. 

First  my  unhappy  statue  shall 
Be  cut  in  marble ; and  withal, 

Let  it  he  weeping  too ! But  there 
Th’  engraver  sure  his  art  may  spare, 

For  I so  truly  thee  bemoan 

That  I shall  weep  though  I be  stone ; 

Until  my  tears,  still  drooping,  wear 
My  breast,  themselves  engraving  there. 
There  at  my  feet  shalt  thou  he  laid, 

Of  purest  alabaster  made ; 

For  I would  have  thine  image  be 
White  as  I can,  though  not  as  thee. 

Andrew  Maevell. 


LAMENT  OF  THE  IRISH  EMIGRANT. 

I ’m  sittin’  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side 

On  a bright  May  mornin’  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride ; 

The  corn  was  springin’  fresh  and  green, 
And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high ; 

And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then ; 

The  lark’s  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again ; 

• But  I miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 
And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek ; 

And  I still  keep  list’nin’  for  the  words 
You  never  more  will  speak. 

’T  is  but  a step  down  yonder  lane, 

And  the  little  church  stands  near — 


The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary; 

I see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  grave-yard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest — 
For  I ’ve  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I ’m  very  lonely  now,  Mary — 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 

But,  O ! they  love  the  better  still 
The  few  our  Father  sends ! 

And  you  were  all  I had,  Mary — 

My  blessin’  and  my  pride : 

There ’s  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 
That  still  kept  hoping  on, 

When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul. 

And  my  arm’s  young  strength  was  gone ; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow — 

I bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 
When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break — 
When  the  hunger  pain  was  gnawin’  there, 
And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake ; 

I bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore — 

0 ! I ’m  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 
Where  grief  can’t  reach  you  more ! 

I ’m  biddin’  you  a long  farewell, 

My  Mary — kind  and  true ! 

But  I ’ll  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I ’m  goin’  to ; 

They  say  there ’s  bread  and  work  for  all, 
And  the  sun  shines  always  there — 

But  I ’ll  not  forget  old  Ireland, 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  ! 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 
I ’ll  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 

And  ray  heart  will  travel  back  again 
To  the  place  where  Mary  lies; 

And  I ’ll  think  I see  the  little  stile 
Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 

And  the  springin’  corn,  and  the  bright  May 
morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

Lady  Ddffebin. 


496 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS. 

“ Drowned  1 Drowned  1 Hamlet. 

One  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 

Rashly  importunate, 

Gone  to  her  death ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly — 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements, 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing ! 

Touoh  her  not  scornfully ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly — 

Hot  of  the  stains  of  her ; 

All  that  remains  of  her 
How  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 

Past  all  dishonor, 

Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers — 
One  of  Eve’s  family — 

Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 
Oozing  so  clammily. 

Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses — 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a sister  ? 

Had  she  a brother  ? 

Or  was  there  a dearer  one 
Still,  and  a nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other? 


Alas ! for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun ! 

O ! it  was  pitiful ! 

Hear  a whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 

Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed — 

Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence ; 
Even  God’s  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood,  with  amazement, 
Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver ; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black  flowing  river ; 
Mad  from  life’s  history, 

Glad  to  death’s  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 

Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world ! 

In  she  plunged  boldly — 

Ho  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran — 

Over  the  brink  of  it ! 

Picture  it — think  of  it ! 
Dissolute  Man ! 

Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can ! 

Take  her  up  tenderly — 

Lift  her  with  care ! 

Fashioned  so  slenderly — 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly, 

Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decently,  kindly, 

Smooth  and  compose  them ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 


49*2 


Dreadfully  staring 
Through  muddy  impurity, 

As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fixed  on  futurity. 

Perishing  gloomily, 

Spurred  by  contumely, 

Cold  inhumanity 
Burning  insanity 
Into  her  rest ! 

Cross  her  hands  humbly, 

As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 

Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 

And  leaving,  with  meekness, 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  MOTHER’S  LAST  SONG. 

Sleep!— The  ghostly  winds  are  blowing! 
No  moon  abroad — no  star  is  glowing ; 

The  river  is  deep,  and  the  tide  is  flowing 
To  the  land  where  you  and  I are  going ! 
We  are  going  afar, 

Beyond  moon  or  star, 

To  the  land  where  the  sinless  angels  are ! 

I lost  my  heart  to  your  heartless  sire, 

(’T  was  melted  away  by  his  looks  of  fire) — 
Forgot  my  God,  and  my  father’s  ire, 

All  for  the  sake  of  a man’s  desire ; 

But  now  we  ’ll  go 
Where  the  waters  flow, 

And  make  us  a bed  where  none  shall 
know. 

The  world  is  cruel — the  world  is  untrue ; 
Our  foes  are  many,  our  friends  are  few  ; 

No  work,  no  bread,  however  we  sue ! 

What  is  there  left  for  me  to  do, 

But  fly — fly 
From  the  cruel  sky, 

And  hide  in  the  deepest  deeps — and  die ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHIRT. 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch!  stitch!  stitch! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch 

She  sang  the  “ Song  of  the  Shirt ! ” 

“ Work ! work ! work ! 

While  the  cock  is  crowing  aloof! 

And  work — work — work, 

Till  the  stars  shine  through  the  roof ! 

It ’s  0 ! to  be  a slave 

Along  with  the  barbarous  Turk, 

Where  woman  has  never  a soul  to  save, 

If  this  is  Christian  work ! 

“ Work — work — work 
Till  the  brain  begins  to  swim ! 

W ork — work — work 
Till  the  eyes  are  heavy  and  dim ! 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band, 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam — 

Till  over  the  buttons  I fall  asleep, 

And  sew  them  on  in  a dream ! 

“ 0,  Men,  with  sisters  dear ! 

O,  Men,  with  mothers  and  wives ! 

It  is  not  linen  you  ’re  wearing  out, 

But  human  creatures’  lives ! 

Stitch — stitch — stitch, 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt — 

Sewing  at  once,  with  a double  thread, 

A shroud  as  well  as  a Shirt ! 

“ But  why  do  I talk  of  Death — 

That  phantom  of  grisly  bone  ? 

I hardly  fear  his  terrible  shape, 

It  seems  so  like  my  own — 

It  seems  so  like  my  own 
Because  of  the  fasts  I keep ; 

0 God ! that  bread  should  be  so  dear, 
And  flesh  and  blood  so  cheap ! 

“ Work — work — work ! 

My  labor  never  flags ; 

And  what  are  its  wages  ? A bed  of  straw 
A crust  of  bread — and  rags. 


32 


498  POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


That  shattered  roof — and  this  naked  floor — 
A table — a broken  chair — 

And  a wall  so  blank  my  shadow  I thank 
For  sometimes  falling  there ! 

“ Work — work — work ! 

From  weary  chime  to  chime ! 

W ork — work — work — 

As  prisoners  work  for  crime ! 

Band,  and  gusset,  and  seam, 

Seam,  and  gusset,  and  band — 

Till  the  heart  is  sick  and  the  brain  benumbed, 
As  well  as  the  weary  hand. 

“ Work — work — work 
In  the  dull  December  light ! 

And  work — work — work, 

When  the  weather  is  warm  and  bright ! — 
While  underneath  the  eaves 
The  brooding  swallows  cling, 

As  if  to  show  me  their  sunny  backs, 

And  twit  me  with  the  Spring. 

“ 0 ! but  to  breathe  the  breath 
Of  the  cowslip  and  primrose  sweet — 

With  the  sky  above  my  head, 

And  the  grass  beneath  my  feet ! 

For  only  one  short  hour 
To  feel  as  I used  to  feel, 

Before  I knew  the  woes  of  want 
And  the  walk  that  costs  a meal ! 

“ 0 ! but  for  one  short  hour — 

A respite  however  brief ! 

No  blessed  leisure  for  Love  or  Hope, 

But  only  time  for  Grief! 

A little  weeping  would  ease  my  heart ; 

But  in  their  briny  bed 
My  tears  must  stop,  for  every  drop 
Hinders  needle  and  thread ! ” 

With  fingers  weary  and  worn, 

With  eyelids  heavy  and  red, 

A woman  sat,  in  unwomanly  rags, 

Plying  her  needle  and  thread — 

Stitch  ! stitch ! stitch ! 

In  poverty,  hunger,  and  dirt ; 

And  still,  with  a voice  of  dolorous  pitch — 
Would  that  its  tone  could  reach  the  rich ! — 
She  sang  this  “ Song  of  the  Shirt ! ” 

Thomas  Hood. 


SONG  OF  THE  SILENT  LAND. 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

Ah!  who  shall  lead  us  thither? 

Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 
And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand; 
Who  leads  us  with  a gentle  hand 
Thither,  O,  thither! 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ? 

Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection ! Tender  morning- visions 
Of  beauteous  souls ! The  Future’s  pledge  and 
band! 

Who  in  Life’s  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  Hope’s  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land ! 

O Land ! 0 Land ! 

For  all  the  broken-hearted 

The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 

To  lead  us  with  a gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed — 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

Johann  Gaudenz  ton  Salis.  (German.) 
Translation  of  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  PAUPER’S  DEATHBED. 

Tkead  softly ! bow  the  head — 

In  reverent  silence  bow ! 

No  passing  bell  doth  toll ; 

Yet  an  immortal  soul 
Is  passing  now. 

Stranger,  however  great, 

With  lowly  reverence  bow! 

There ’s  one  in  that  poor  shed — 

One  by  that  paltry  bed — 

Greater  than  thou. 

Beneath  that  beggar’s  roof, 

Lo ! Death  doth  keep  his  state ! 

Enter ! — no  crowds  attend — 

Enter ! — no  guards  defend 
This  palace  gate. 


THE  LAST 

JOURNEY.  499 

That  pavement  damp  and  cold 

Hearken ! — he  speaketh  yet ! — 

No  smiling  courtiers  tread  ; 

“0,  friend!  wilt  thou  forget 

One  silent  woman  stands, 

(Friend — more  than  brother!) 

Lifting  with  meagre  hands 

How  hand  in  hand  we ’ve  gone, 

A dying  head. 

No  mingling  voices  sound — 

Heart  with  heart  linked  in  one — 
All  to  each  other  ? 

An  infant  wail  alone ; 

“ 0,  friend ! I go  from  thee — 

A sob  suppressed — again 

Where  the  worm  feasteth  free, 

That  short  deep  gasp — and  then 

Darkly  to  dwell ; 

The  parting  groan ! 

Giv’st  thou  no  parting  kiss  ? 
Friend ! is  it  come  to  this  ? 

0!  change — 0!  wondrous  change! 

Burst  are  the  prison  bars ! 

This  moment  there,  so  low, 

0,  friend,  farewell ! ” 

So  agonized — and  now 

Uplift  your  load  again ! 

Beyond  the  stars ! 

Take  up  the  mourning  strain — 
Pour  the  deep  wail ! 

0 ! change — stupendous  change ! 

Lo ! the  expected  one 

There  lies  the  soulless  clod ! 

To  his  place  passeth  on — 

The  sun  eternal  breaks ; 

The  new  immortal  wakes — 

Grave  ! bid  him  hail ! 

Wakes  with  his  God. 

Yet,  yet — ah!  slowly  move! 

Caroline  Bowles  Southey. 

THE  LAST  JOURNEY. 

Bear  not  the  form  we  love 
Fast  from  our  sight — 
Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  beam  on  him 
Last  looks  of  light. 

Slowly,  with  measured  tread, 

Here  dwells  his  mortal  foe ; 

Onward  we  bear  the  dead 

Lay  the  departed  low, 

To  his  lone  home ; 

Even  at  his  gate ! 

Short  grows  the  homeward  road — 

Will  the  dead  speak  again — 

On  with  your  mortal  load ! — 

Utt’ring  proud  boasts,  and  vain 

0,  grave ! we  come. 

Last  words  of  hate  ? 

Yet,  yet — ah ! hasten  not 

Lo ! the  cold  lips  unclose — 

Past  each  remembered  spot 

List ! list ! what  sounds  are  those, 

Where  he  hath  been — 

Plaintive  and  low  ? 

Where  late  he  walked  in  glee, 

“ 0,  thou,  mine  enemy ! 

These  from  henceforth  to  be 

Come  forth  and  look  on  me, 

Never  more  seen ! 

Ere  hence  I go. 

Rest  ye — set  down  the  bier ! 

“ Curse  not  thy  foemen  now — 

One  he  loved  dwelletli  here ; 

Mark ! on  his  pallid  brow 

Let  the  dead  lie 

Whose  seal  is  set ! 

A moment  that  door  beside, 

Pardoning  I pass  thy  way ; 

Wont  to  fly  open  wide 

Then  wage  not  war  with  clay — 

Ere  he  drew  nigh. 

Pardon — forget ! ” 

500 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Now  all  his  labor ’s  done ! 

Now,  now  the  goal  is  won ! 

O,  grave,  we  come ! 

Seal  up  the  precious  dust — 

Land  of  the  good  and  just, 

Take  the  soul  home ! 

Cabolute  Bowles  Southey. 


THE  PAUPER’S  DRIVE. 

Theee ’s  a grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a jolly 
round  trot — 

To  the  church-yard  a pauper  is  going,  I wot ; 

The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no 
springs ; 

And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  sad  driver 
sings : 

Rattle  his  tones  over  the  stones  ! 

He  ’«  only  a pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  ! 

O,  where  are  the  mourners  ? Alas ! there  are 
none — 

He  has  left  not  a gap  in  the  world,  now  he ’s 
gone — 

Not  a tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or 
man ; 

To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you 
can: 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He 's  only  a pauper , whom  nobody  owns  ! 

What  a jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing, 
and  din ! 

The  whip  how  it  cracks!  and  the  wheels,  how 
they  spin  1 

How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o’er  the  hedges 
is  hurled ! — 

The  pauper  at  length  makes  a noise  in  the 
world ! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He 's  only  a pauper , whom  nobody  owns  ! 

Poor  pauper  defunct ! he  has  made  some  ap- 
proach 

To  gentility,  now  that  he’s  stretched  in  a 
coach ! 


He ’s  taking  a drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 

But  it  will  not  he  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He 's  only  a pauper , whom  nobody  owns  ! 

You  bumpkins!  who  stare  at  your  brother 
conveyed — 

Behold  what  respect  to  a cloddy  is  paid ! 

And  he  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you  ’re 
laid  low, 

You’ve  a chance  to  the  grave  like  a gemman 
to  go! 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He ’s  only  a pauper,  whom  nobody  owns! 

But  a truce  to  this  strain ; for  my  soul  it  is 
sad, 

To  think  that  a heart  in  humanity  clad 

Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a desolate 
end, 

And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a 
friend ! 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

Though  a pauper,  he ’s  one  whom  his  Maher 
yet  owns  ! 

Thomas  Noel. 


THE  DEATH-BED. 

We  watched  her  breathing  thro’  the  night, 
Her  breathing  soft  and  low, 

As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 
Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seemed  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 

As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 
To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied- — 

We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  mom  came,  dim  and  sad, 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 


Thomas  Hood. 


HESTER. 


501 


A DEATH-BED. 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 

And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away, 
In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 

She  passed  through  Glory’s  morning-gate, 
And  walked  in  Paradise ! 

James  Aldrich. 


PEACE!  WHAT  DO  TEARS  AVAIL? 

Peace  ! what  can  tears  avail  ? 

She  lies  all  dumb  and  pale, 

And  from  her  eye 
The  spirit  of  lovely  life  is  fading — 

And  she  must  die ! 

Why  looks  the  lover  wroth — the  friend  up- 
braiding ? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Hath  she  not  dwelt  too  long 
’Midst  pain,  and  grief,  and  wrong  ? 

Then  why  not  die  ? 

Why  suffer  again  her  doom  of  sorrow, 

And  hopeless  lie  ? 

Why  nurse  the  trembling  dream  until  to-mor- 
row? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Death ! Take  her  to  thine  arms, 

In  all  her  stainless  charms ! 

And  with  her  fly 

To  heavenly  haunts,  where,  clad  in  bright- 
ness, 

The  angels  lie ! 

Wilt  hear  her  there,  O Death!  in  all  her 
whiteness  ? 

Reply,  reply ! 

Baery  Cornwall. 


HESTER. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 

Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a thousand  try, 

With  vain  endeavor. 

A month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I by  force  he  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 
And  her,  together. 

A springy  motion  in  her  gait, 

A rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 

That  flushed  her  spirit ; 

I know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I shall  it  call : — if ’t  was  not  pride, 

It  was  a joy  to  that  allied, 

She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 

Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool ; 

But  she  was  trained  in  Nature’s  school — 
Nature  had  blessed  her. 

A waking  eye,  a prying  mind, 

A heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind ; 

A hawk’s  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind — 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbor,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore ! 

Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 

Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a ray 
Hath  struck  a bliss  upon  the  day — 

A bliss  that  would  not  go  away — 

A sweet  fore- warning  ? 

Charles  Lamb 


502 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


LYCIDAS. 

Yet  once  more,  O ye  Laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  Myrtles  brown,  with  Ivy  never  sere, 

I come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 
Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing 
year. 

Bitter  constraint,  and  sad  occasion  dear, 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ? he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  Sacred  Well, 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth 
spring, 

Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain,  and  coy  excuse ; 

So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn, 

And  as  he  passes  turn, 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud ; 
For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and 
rill. 

Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appear- 
ed 

Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  morn, 

We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of 
night, 

Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward  Heaven’s  descent  had  sloped  his 
westering  wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute ; 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven 
heel 

From  the  glad  song  would  not  be  absent  long, 
And  old  Damaetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But  0 the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art 
gone — 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods,  and  desert 
caves, 


With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o’er 
grown, 

And  all  their  echoes,  mourn ; 

The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen, 

Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that 
graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe 
wear, 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd’s  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  re- 
morseless deep 

Closed  o’er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep, 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids, 
lie, 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard 
stream — 

Ay  me ! I fondly  dream, 

Had  ye  been  there ; for  what  could  that  have 
done? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus 
bore, 

The  Muse  herself  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  Nature  did  lament, 

When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous 
roar, 

His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas ! what  boots  it  with  incessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted  shepherd’s  trade, 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Nesera’s  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth 
raise 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds) 

To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred 
shears, 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.  But  not  the 
praise, 

Phoebus  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling 
ears ; 


LYCIDAS.  503 


Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 
Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  lies ; 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 

Of  so  much  fame  in  Heaven  expect  thy  meed. 
O fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honored 
flood, 

Smooth-sliding  Mincius,  crowned  with  vocal 
reeds, 

That  strain  I heard  was  of  a higher  mood ; 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 

And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune’s  plea ; 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon 
winds, 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle 
swain  ? 

And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  winds 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory ; 
They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a blast  was  from  his  dungeon 
strayed ; 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark, 

Built  in  th’  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses 
dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 
Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing 
slow, 

His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge, 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge, 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower,  inscribed  with 
woe. 

Ah ! who  hath  reft  (quoth  he)  my  dearest 
pledge  ? 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  pilot  of  the  Galilean  Lake  ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain)  ; 

He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake : 
How  well  could  I have  spared  for  thee,  young 
swain, 

Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies’  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold  ? 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make, 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers’  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest ; 


Blind  mouths ! that  scarce  themselves  know 
how  to  hold 

A sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else  the 
least 

That  to  the  faithful  herdsman’s  art  belongs ! 
What  recks  it  them  ? what  need  they  ? they 
are  sped ; 

And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy 
songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched 
straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But,  swollen  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist 
they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said ; 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door, 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no 
more. 

Return,  Alpheus,  the  dread  voice  is  past, 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ; return  Sicilian 
Muse, 

And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells,  and  flowerets  of  a thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing 
brooks, 

On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart-star  sparely 
looks, 

Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamelled  eyes, 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honied  show- 
ers, 

And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flow- 
ers. 

Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 

The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with 

jet, 

The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  wood- 
bine, 

With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive 
head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  beauty  shed, 

And  daffodillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears, 

To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so  to  interpose  a little  ease, 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  sur- 
mise. 


504 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


Ay  me ! whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding 
seas 

Wash  far  away,  where’er  thy  hones  are  hurled, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 
Yisit’st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 
Or  whether  thou  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep’st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 

Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  towards  ISTamancos  and  Bayona’s  hold ; 
Look  homeward  Angel  now,  and  melt  with 
ruth! 

And,  0 ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth! 
Weep  no  more,  woeful  Shepherds,  weep  no 
more! 

For  Lycidas  your  sorrow  is  not  dead, 

Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean  bed, 

And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head, 

And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled 
ore 

Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky ; 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high, 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked 
the  waves, 

Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song, 

In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  Joy  and  Love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  saints  above, 

In  solemn  troops  and  sweet  societies, 

That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  genius  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 
Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  th’  oaks 
and  rills, 

While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals 
gray; 

He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay. 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  ont  all  the 
hills, 

And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay ; 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new. 

John  Milton. 


ELEGY  ON  CAPTAIN  MATTHEW 
HENDERSON. 

O Death!  thou  tyrant  fell  and  bloody! 
The  muckle  devil  wi’  a woodie 
Haurl  thee  hame  to  his  black  smiddie, 
O’er  hurcheon  hides, 

And  like  stock-fish  come  o’er  his  studdie 
Wi’  thy  auld  sides ! 

He ’s  gane ! he ’s  gane ! he ’s  frae  us  torn, 
The  ae  best  fellow  e’er  was  born ! 

Thee,  Matthew,  Nature’s  sel’  shall  mourn 
By  wood  and  wild, 

Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exiled. 

Ye  hills,  near  neebors  o’  the  stams, 

That  proudly  cock  your  cresting  cairns ! 
Ye  cliffs,  the  haunts  of  sailing  yearns, 
Where  Echo  slumbers ! 

Come  join,  ye  Nature’s  sturdiest  bairns, 
My  wailing  numbers ! 

Mourn,  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens ! 

Ye  haz’lly  shaws  and  briery  dens! 

Ye  burnies,  wimplin  down  your  glens, 

Wi’  todlin’  din, 

Or  foaming  strang,  wi’  hasty  stens, 

Frae  linn  to  linn. 

Mourn,  little  harebells  owre  the  lea; 

Ye  stately  foxgloves  fair  to  see ; 

Ye  woodbines  hanging  bonnilie, 

In  scented  bowers ; 

Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tree, 

The  first  o’  flowers ! 

At  dawn,  when  every  grassy  blade 
Droops  with  a diamond  at  his  head, 

At  ev’n,  when  beans  their  fragrance  shed 
I’  th’  rustling  gale, 

Ye  maukins,  whiddin’  through  the  glade, 
Come,  join  my  wail ! 

Mourn,  ye  wee  songsters  o’  the  wood ; 

Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  bud ; 

Ye  curlews  calling  through  a clud; 

Ye  whistling  plover ; 

And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitrick  brood : 
He ’s  gane  for  ever ! 


A FUNERAL  HYMN. 


50£ 


Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  speckled  teals; 

Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels; 

Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi’  airy  wheels 
Circling  the  lake ; 

Ye  bitterns,  till  the  quagmire  reels, 

Rair  for  his  sake ! 

Mourn,  clam’ring  craiks,  at  close  o’  day, 
’Mang  fields  o’  flow’ring  clover  gay ! 

And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 
Frae  our  cauld  shore, 

Tell  thae  far  warlds  wha  lies  in  clay, 
Wham  we  deplore. 

Ye  howlets,  frae  your  ivy  bow’r, 

In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow’r, 

What  time  the  moon,  wi’  silent  glow’r, 
Sets  up  her  horn, 

Wail  through  the  weary  midnight  hour 
Till  waukrife  morn ! 

O rivers,  forests,  hills,  and  plains ! 

Oft  have  ye  heard  my  cantie  strains ; 

But  now,  what  else  for  me  remains 
But  tales  of  woe ; 

And  frae  my  een  the  drapping  rains 
Maun  ever  flow ! 

Mourn,  Spring,  thou  darling  of  the  year ! 
Ilk  cowslip  cup  shall  kep  a tear ; 

Thou,  Simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 
Shoots  up  his  head, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flow’ry  tresses  shear, 

For  him  that ’s  dead ! 

Thou,  Autumn,  wi’  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear ! 

Thou,  Winter,  hurling  through  the  air 
The  roaring  blast, 

Wide  o’er  the  naked  world  declare 
The  worth  w6 ’ve  lost ! 

Mourn  him,  thou  Sun,  great  source  of  light! 
Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 

And  you,  ye  twinkling  starnies  bright, 

My  Matthew  mourn ! 

For  through  your  orbs  he ’s  taen  his  flight, 
Ne’er  to  return. 

O Henderson ! the  man ! the  brother ! 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ? 


And  hast  thou  crossed  that  unknown  river 
Life’s  dreary  bound  ? 

Like  thee,  where  shall  I find  another, 

The  world  around  ? 

Go  to  your  sculptured  tombs,  ye  great, 

In  a’  the  tinsel  trash  o’  state ! 

But  by  thy  honest  turf  I ’ll  wait, 

Thou  man  of  worth ! 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow’s  fate 
E’er  lay  in  earth. 

Robert  Burns. 


A FUNERAL'  HYMN. 

Ye  midnight  shades,  o’er  Nature  spread! 

Dumb  silence  of  the  dreary  hour ! 

In  honor  of  th’  approaching  dead, 

Around  your  awful  terrors  pour. 

Yes,  pour  around, 

On  this  pale  ground, 

Through  all  this  deep  surrounding  gloom, 
The  sober  thought, 

The  tear  untaught, 

Those  meetest  mourners  at  a tomb. 

Lo ! as  the  surpliced  train  draw  near 
To  this  last  mansion  of  mankind, 

The  slow  sad  bell,  the  sable  bier, 

In  holy  musings  wrap  the  mind ! 

And  while  their  beam, 

With  trembling  stream, 

Attending  tapers  faintly  dart, 

Each  mouldering  bone, 

Each  sculptured  stone, 

Strikes  mute  instruction  to  the  heart ! 

Now,  let  the  sacred  organ  blow, 

With  solemn  pause,  and  sounding  slow : 
Now,  let  the  voice  due  measure  keep, 

In  strains  that  sigh,  and  words  that  weep : 
Till  all  the  vocal  current  blended  roll, 

Not  to  depress,  but  lift  the  soaring  soul — 

To  lift  it  to  the  Maker’s  praise, 

Who  first  informed  our  frame  with  breath ; 
And,  after  some  few  stormy  days, 

Now,  gracious,  gives  us  o’er  to  death. 


506 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


No  king  of  fears 
In  him  appears, 

Who  shuts  the  scene  of  human  woes  : 
Beneath  his  shade 
Securely  laid, 

The  dead  alone  find  true  repose. 

Then,  while  we  mingle  dust  with  dust, 

To  One,  supremely  good  and  wise, 

Raise  hallelujahs ! God  is  just, 

And  man  most  happy  when  he  dies ! 

His  winter  past, 

Fair  spring  at  last 
Receives  him  on  her  flowery  shore ; 

Where  pleasure’s  rose 
Immortal  blows, 

And  sin  and  sorrow  are  no  more ! 

David  Mallett. 


O!  SNATCHED  AWAY  IN’  BEAUTY’S 
BLOOM. 

0 ! snatched  away  in  beauty’s  bloom, 

On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 

But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year ; 

And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom. 

And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 

And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread — 
Fond  wretch!  as  if  her  step  disturbed  the 
dead. 

Away ! we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 

That  Death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distress : 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 

Or  make  one  mourner  weep  the  less  ? 

And  thou — who  tell’st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

Lord  Byron. 


CORONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 

Like  a summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 

The  font  re-appearing 
From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow  : 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 
Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 

But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 
Wails  manhood  in  glory. 

The  Autumn  winds  rushing, 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 

Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 

Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 
Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever. 

Sir  "Walter  Scott. 


O!  BREATHE  NOT  HIS  NAME. 

0 ! breathe  not  his  name ! let  it  sleep  in  the 
shade, 

Where  cold  and  unhonored  his  relics  are  laid ; 

Sad,  silent,  and  dark  be  the  tears  that  we  shed, 

As  the  night  dew  that  falls  on  the  grave  o’er 
his  head. 

But  the  night  dew  that  falls,  though  in  silence 
it  weeps, 

Shall  brighten  with  verdure  the  grave  where 
he  sleeps ; 

And  the  tear  that  we  shed,  though  in  secret 
it  rolls, 

Shall  long  keep  his  memory  green  in  our 
souls. 


Thomas  Moork. 


THE  DIRGE  OF  IMOGEN. 


507 


A DIRGE. 

i. 

Now  is  done  thy  long  day’s  work ; 

Fold  thy  palms  across  thy  breast — 
Fold  thine  arms,  turn  to  thy  rest. 

Let  them  rave. 

Shadows  of  the  silver  birk 
Sweep  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

ii. 

Thee  nor  carketh  care  nor  slander ; 
Nothing  but  the  small  cold  worm 
Fretteth  thine  enshrouded  form. 

Let  them  rave. 

Light  and  shadow  ever  wander 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

hi. 

Thou  wilt  not  turn  upon  thy  bed ; 
Chanteth  not  the  brooding  bee 
Sweeter  tones  than  calumny  ? 

Let  them  rave. 

Thou  wilt  never  raise  thine  head 
From  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 

IV. 

Crocodiles  wept  tears  for  thee ; 

The  woodbine  and  eglatere 

Drip  sweeter  dews  than  traitor’s  tear. 

Let  them  rave. 

Rain  makes  music  in  the  tree 
O’er  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

v. 

Round  thee  blow,  self-pleached  deep 
Bramble  roses,  faint  and  pale, 

And  long  purples  of  the  dale. 

Let  them  rave. 

These  in  every  shower  creep 
Through  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 
Let  them  rave. 


VI. 

The  gold-eyed  kingcups  fine, 

The  frail  bluebell  peereth  over 
Rare  broid’ry  of  the  purple  clover. 

Let  them  rave. 

Kings  have  no  such  couch  as  thine, 

As  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

VII. 

Wild  words  wander  here  and  there ; 
God’s  great  gift  of  speech  abused 
Makes  thy  memory  confused — 

But  let  them  rave. 

The  balm-cricket  carols  clear 
In  the  green  that  folds  thy  grave. 

Let  them  rave. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  DIRGE  OF  IMOGEN. 

Feab  no  more  the  heat  o’  the  sun, 

Nor  the  furious  Winter’s  rages ; 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone,  and  ta’en  thy  wages : 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o’  the  great — 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant’s  stroke ; 
Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat  ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak. 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 
All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone ; 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash ; 

Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exorciser  harm  thee ! 

Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee ! 

Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee ! 

Nothing  ill  come  near  thee ! 

Quiet  consummation  have ; 

And  renowned  be  thy  grave ! 

Shakespeare. 


508 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


DIRGE  OF  JEPHTHAH’S  DAUGHTER. 

SUNG  BY  THE  VIEGINS. 

O thou,  the  wonder  of  all  dayes ! 

O paragon,  and  pearl  of  praise ! 

O virgin-martyr,  ever  blest 
Above  the  rest 

Of  all  the  maiden  traine ! We  come, 

And  bring  fresh  strewings  to  thy  tombe. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus  we  compasse  round 
Thy  harmlesse  and  unhaunted  ground ; 
And  as  we  sing  thy  dirge,  we  will 
The  daffodill, 

And  other  flowers,  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  stone. 

Thou,  wonder  of  all  maids,  rest  here — 

Of  daughters  all,  the  deerest  deere ; 

The  eye  of  virgins ; nay,  the  queen 
Of  this  smooth  green, 

And  all  sweet  meades  from  whence  we  get 
The  primrose  and  the  violet. 

Too  soone,  too  deere,  did  Jephthah  buy, 

By  thy  sad  losse,  our  liberty ; 

His  was  the  bond  and  cov’nant,  yet 
Thou  paid’st  the  debt ; 

Lamented  maid ! he  won  the  day, 

But  for  the  conquest  thou  didst  pay. 

Thy  father  brought  with  him  along 
The  olive  branch,  and  victor’s  song ; 

He  slew  the  Ammonites  we  know — 

But  to  thy  woe  ; 

And  in  the  purchase  of  our  peace 
The  cure  was  worse  than  the  disease. 

For  which  obedient  zeale  of  thine 
We  offer  here,  before  thy  shrine, 

Our  sighs  for  storax,  teares  for  wine ; 

And,  to  make  fine 

And  fresh  thy  herse-cloth,  we  will  here 
Four  times  bestrew  thee  every  yeere. 

Receive,  for  this  thy  praise,  our  tears ; 
Receive  this  offering  of  our  haires ; 

Receive  these  christall  vials,  filled 
With  tears  distilled 


From  teeming  eyes ; to  these  we  bring, 
Each  maid,  her  silver  filleting, 

To  guild  thy  tombe ; besides,  these  caules, 
These  laces,  ribbands,  and  these  faules — 
These  veiles,  wherewith  we  use  to  hide 
The  bashfull  bride, 

When  we  conduct  her  to  her  groome ; 

All,  all  we  lay  upon  thy  tombe. 

No  more,  no  more,  since  thou  art  dead, 
Shall  we  e’er  bring  coy  brides  to  bed ; 

No  more,  at  yeerly  festi vails, 

We  cowslip  balls, 

Or  chaines  of  columbines,  shall  make 
For  this  or  that  occasion’s  sake. 

No,  no ! our  maiden  pleasures  be 
Wrapt  in  the  winding-sheet  with  thee ; 

’T  is  we  are  dead,  though  not  i’  th’  grave ; 
Or  if  we  have 

One  seed  of  life  left,  ’t  is  to  keep 
A Lent  for  thee,  to  fast  and  weep. 

Sleep  in  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  spice, 

And  make  this  place  all  paradise ; 

May  sweets  grow  here,  and  smoke  from 
hence 

Fat  frankincense ; 

Let  balme  and  cassia  send  their  scent 
From  out  thy  maiden  monument. 

May  no  wolfe  howle,  or  screech-owle  stir 
A wing  about  thy  sepulchre ; 

No  boysterous  winds  or  storms  come  hither, 
To  starve  or  wither 

Thy  soft  sweet  earth ; but,  like  a Spring, 
Love  keep  it  ever  flourishing. 

May  all  shie  maids,  at  wonted  hours, 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tombe  with  flowers ; 
May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 
Male  incense  burn 
Upon  thine  altar ; then  return, 

And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thy  urn. 

Robert  Herrick. 


DIRGE. 


509 


DIRGE. 

“ 0 dig  a grave,  and  dig  it  deep, 

Where  I and  my  true  love  may  sleep ! ” 

We  'll  dig  a grave , and  dig  it  deep , 
Where  thou  and  thy  true  love  shall  deep  l 

“And  let  it  be  five  fathom  low, 

Where  winter  winds  may  never  blow ! ” 
And  it  shall  be  five  fathoms  low , 

Where  winter  winds  shall  never  blow  ! 

“And  let  it  be  on  yonder  hill, 

Where  grows  the  mountain  daffodil ! ” 

And  it  shall  be  on  yonder  hill , 

Where  grows  the  mountain  daffodil! 

“And  plant  it  round  with  holy  briers, 

To  fright  away  the  fairy  fires ! ” 

We  'll  plant  it  round  with  holy  briers , 
To  fright  away  the  fairy  fires  ! 

“And  set  it  round  with  celandine, 

And  nodding  heads  of  columbine ! ” 

We  HI  set  it  round  with  celandine , 

And  nodding  heads  of  columbine  ! 

“And  let  the  ruddock  build  his  nest 
Just  above  my  true  love’s  breast ! ” — 

The  ruddock  he  shall  build  his  nest 
Just  above  thy  true  love's  breast ! — 

“And  warble  his  sweet  wintry  song 
O’er  our  dwelling  all  day  long ! ” 

And'  he  shall  warble  his  sweet  song 
O'er  your  dwelling  all  day  long. 

“ Now,  tender  friends,  my  garments  take, 
And  lay  me  out  for  Jesus’  sake ! ” 

And  we  will  now  thy  garments  take , 

And  lay  thee  out  for  Jesus'  sake  ! 

“And  lay  me  by  my  true  love’s  side, 

That  I may  be  a faithful  bride ! ” 

We'll  lay  thee  by  thy  true  love's  side , 
That  thou  may'st  be  a faithful  bride  ! 

“ When  I am  dead,  and  buried  be, 

Pray  to  God  in  heaven  for  me ! ” 

Now  thou  art  dead , we'll  bury  thee , 

And  pray  to  God  in  hea/cen  for  thee  ! 

Benedicile  ! 

William  Stanley  Rosooe. 


DIRGE  IN  CYMBELINE, 

SUNG  BY  GUIDEBUS  AND  ARVIRAGUS  OVER 
FIDELE,  SUPPOSED  TO  BE  DEAD. 

To  fair  Fidele’s  grassy  tomb 

Soft  maids  and  village  hinds  shall  bring 

Each  opening  sweet  of  earliest  bloom, 

And  rifle  all  the  breathing  Spring. 

No  wailing  ghost  shall  dare  appear, 

To  vex  with  shrieks  this  quiet  grove ; 

But  shepherd  lads  assemble  here, 

And  melting  virgins  own  their  love. 

No  withered  witch  shall  here  be  seen- 
No  goblins  lead  their  nightly  crew  ; 

The  female  fays  shall  haunt  the  green, 

And  dress  thy  grave  with  pearly  dew. 

The  redbreast  oft,  at  evening  hours, 

Shall  kindly  lend  his  little  aid, 

With  hoary  moss,  and  gathered  flowers, 

To  deck  the  ground  where  thou  art  laid. 

When  howling  winds  and  beating  rain 
In  tempests  shake  the  sylvan  cell, 

Or  ’midst  the  chase,  on  every  plain, 

The  tender  thought  on  thee  shall  dwell, 

Each  lonely  scene  shall  thee  restore, 

Eor  thee  the  tear  be  duly  shed ; 

Beloved  till  life  can  charm  no  more, 

And  mourned  till  Pity’s  self  be  dead. 

William  Collins. 


DIRGE. 

If  thou  wilt  ease  thine  heart 
Of  love,  and  all  its  smart — 

Then  sleep,  dear,  sleep ! 

And  not  a sorrow 
Hang  any  tear  on  your  eyelashes ; 
Lie  still  and  deep, 

Sad  soul,  until  the  sea-wavo  washes 
The  rim  o’  the  sun  to-morrow, 

In  eastern  sky. 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


But  wilt  thou  cure  thine  heart 
Of  love,  and  all  its  smart — 

Then  die,  dear,  die ! 

’T  is  deeper,  sweeter, 

Than  on  a rose  hank  to  lie  dreaming 
With  folded  eye ; 

And  then  alone,  amid  the  beaming 
Of  Love’s  stars,  thou  ’It  meet  her 
In  eastern  sky. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 


BRIDAL  SONG  AND  DIRGE. 

A oypress-botjgh  and  a rose- wreath  sweet, 
A wedding-robe  and  a winding-sheet, 

A bridal-bed  and  a bier ! 

Thine  he  the  kisses,  maid, 

And  smiling  love’s  alarms ; 

And  thou,  pale  youth,  he  laid 
In  the  grave’s  cold  arms : 

Each  in  his  own  charms — 

Death  and  Hymen  both  are  here. 

So  up  with  scythe  and  torch, 

And  to  the  old  church  porch, 

While  all  the  hells  ring  clear ; 

And  rosy,  rosy  the  bed  shall  bloom, 

And  earthy,  earthy  heap  up  the  tomb. 

Now  tremble  dimples  on  your  cheek — 
Sweet  he  your  lips  to  taste  and  speak. 

For  he  who  kisses  is  near : 

By  her  the  bridegod  fair, 

In  youthful  power  and  force ; 

By  him  the  grizard  bare, 

Pale  knight  on  a pale  horse, 

To  woo  him  to  a corse — 

Death  and  Hymen  both  are  here. 

So  up  with  scythe  and  torch, 

And  to  the  old  church  porch, 

While  all  the  hells  ring  clear ; 

And  rosy,  rosy  the  bed  shall  bloom, 

And  earthy,  earthy  heap  up  the  tomb. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 


DIRGE. 


i. 

Softly ! 

She  is  lying 
With  her  lips  apart. 

Softly ! 

She  is  dying  of  a broken  heart. 


n. 

Whisper ! 

She  is  going 
To  her  final  rest. 

Whisper ! 

Life  is  growing 
Dim  within  her  breast. 

m. 

Gently ! 

She  is  sleeping , 

She  has  breathed  her  last 
Gently! 

While  you  are  weeping, 

She  to  Heaven  has  past ! 

Charles  Gamage  Eastman. 


DIRGE  FOR  A YOUNG  GIRL. 

Underneath  the  sod  low-lying, 

Dark  and  drear, 

Sleepeth  one  who  left,  in  dying, 
Sorrow  here. 

Yes,  they  ’re  ever  bending  o’er  her 
Eyes  that  weep ; 

Forms,  that  to  the  cold  grave  bore  her, 
Vigils  keep. 

When  the  summer  moon  is  shining 
Soft  and  fair, 

Friends  she  loved  in  tears  are  twining 
Chaplets  there. 

Rest  in  peace,  thou  gentle  spirit, 
Throned  above — 

Souls  like  thine  with  God  inherit 
Life  and  love ! 

James  T.  Fields. 


THE  PHANTOM. 


511 


A BRIDAL  DIRGE. 

Weave  no  more  the  marriage  chain ! 

All  nnmated  is  the  lover ; 

Death  has  ta’en  the  place  of  Pain ; 

Love  doth  call  on  love  in  vain ; 

Life  and  years  of  hope  are  over ! 

No  more  want  of  marriage  bell ! 

No  more  need  of  bridal  favor ! 

Where  is  she  to  wear  them  well  ? 

You  beside  the  lover,  tell! 

Gone — with  all  the  love  he  gave  her ! 

Paler  than  the  stone  she  lies — 

Colder  than  the  winter’s  morning ! 
Wherefore  did  she  thus  despise 
(She  with  pity  in  her  eyes) 

Mother’s  care,  and  lover’s  warning  ? 

Youth  and  beauty — shall  they  not 
Last  beyond  a brief  to-morrow  ? 

No — a prayer  and  then  forgot! 

This  the  truest  lover’s  lot, 

This  the  sum  of  human  sorrow ! 

Baeky  Coenwall. 


DIRGE. 

Where  shall  we  make  her  grave? 

0,  where  the  wild-flowers  wave 
In  the  free  air ! 

When  shower  and  singing  bird 
’Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard — 
There — lay  her  there ! 

Harsh  was  the  world  to  her — 

Now  may  sleep  minister 
Balm  for  each  ill ; 

Low  on  sweet  Nature’s  breast 
Let  the  meek  heart  find  rest, 

Deep,  deep  and  still ! 

Murmur,  glad  waters,  by  ! 

Faint  gales,  with  happy  sigh, 

Come  wandering  o’er 
That  green  and  mossy  bed, 

Where,  on  a gentle  head, 

Storms  beat  no  more ! 


What  though  for  her  in  vain 
Falls  now  the  bright  spring-rain, 

Plays  the  soft  wind  ? 

Yet  still,  from  where  she  lies, 

Should  blessed  breathings  rise, 
Gracious  and  kind. 

Therefore  let  song  and  dew, 

Thence,  in  the  heart  renew 
Life’s  vernal  glow ! 

And  o’er  that  holy  earth 
Scents  of  the  violet’s  birth 
Still  come  and  go ! 

O,  then,  where  wild-flowers  wave, 
Make  ye  her  mossy  grave 
In  the  free  air ! 

Where  shower  and  singing-bird 
’Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard — 
There,  lay  her  there ! 

Felicia  Hemans. 


THE  PHANTOM. 

Again  I sit  within  the  mansion, 

In  the  old,  familiar  seat ; 

And  shade  and  sunshine  chase  each  other 
O’er  the  carpet  at  my  feet. 

But  the  sweet-brier’s  arms  have  wrestled 
upwards 

In  the  summers  that  are  past, 

And  the  willow  trails  its  branches  lower 
Than  when  I saw  them  last. 

They  strive  to  shut  the  sunshine  wholly 
From  out  the  haunted  room — 

To  fill  the  house,  that  once  was  joyful, 
With  silence  and  with  gloom. 

And  many  kind,  remembered  faces 
Within  the  doorway  come — 

Voices,  that  wake  the  sweeter  music 
Of  one  that  now  is  dumb. 

They  sing,  in  tones  as  glad  as  ever, 

The  songs  she  loved  to  hear ; 

They  braid  the  rose  in  summer  garlands, 
Whose  flowers  to  her  were  dear. 


512 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


And  still,  her  footsteps  in  the  passage, 

Her  blushes  at  the  door, 

Her  timid  words  of  maiden  welcome, 

Come  hack  to  me  once  more. 

And  all  forgetful  of  my  sorrow, 

Unmindful  of  my  pain, 

I think  she  has  hut  newly  left  me, 

And  soon  will  come  again. 

She  stays  without,  perchance,  a moment, 
To  dress  her  dark-brown  hair ; 

I hear  the  rustle  of  her  garments — 

Her  light  step  on  the  stair ! 

0,  fluttering  heart ! control  thy  tumult, 
Lest  eyes  profane  should  see 

My  cheeks  betray  the  rush  of  rapture 
Her  coming  brings  to  me ! 

She  tarries  long : but  lo ! a whisper 
Beyond  the  open  door— 

And,  gliding  through  the  quiet  sunshine, 

A shadow  on  the  floor ! 

Ah ! ’tis  the  whispering  pine  that  calls  me, 
The  vine  whose  shadow  strays ; 

And  my  patient  heart  must  still  await  her, 
Nor  chide  her  long  delays. 

But  my  heart  grows  sick  with  weary  wait- 
ing, 

As  many  a time  before  : 

Her  foot  is  ever  at  the  threshold, 

Yet  never  passes  o’er. 

Bayaed  Tayloe. 


EPITAPH  ON  ELIZABETH  L.  H. 

Would’st  thou  heare  what  man  can  say 
In  a little  ? — reader,  stay ! 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye 
As  much  beauty  as  could  dye  ; 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 
To  more  vertue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth — 

Th’  other,  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter,  where  it  dyed  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.  Farewell ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


ICHABOD. 

So  fallen ! so  lost ! the  light  withdrawn 
Which  once  he  wore ! 

The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 
For  evermore ! 

Revile  him  not — the  Tempter  hath 
A snare  for  all ! 

And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 
Befit  his  fall ! 

0 ! dumb  be  passion’s  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 

Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn!  Would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 
A bright  soul  driven, 

Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 
From  hope  and  Heaven? 

Let  not  the  land,  once  proud  of  him, 
Insult  him  now ; 

Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 
Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 

A long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  nought 
Save  power  remains — 

A fallen  angel’s  pride  of  thought, 

Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ; from  those  great  eyes 
The  soul  has  fled : 

When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 
To  his  dead  fame ; 

Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame ! 

John  Geeenleaf  Whittikk. 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  OF  CHARLES  THE  FIRST. 


518 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 

i. 

Just  for  a handful  of  silver  he  left  us ; 

Just  for  a riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 

Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 

They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out 
silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed. 

How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been 
proud ! 

We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  hon- 
ored him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 

Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear 
accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 

Shakspeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us — they  watch 
from  their  graves ! 

He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  free- 
men ; 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 

ii. 

We  shall  march  prospering — not  through  his 
presence ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us — not  from  his  lyre ; 

Deeds  will  he  done — while  he  boasts  his 
quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade 
aspire. 

Blot  out  his  name,  then — record  one  lost  soul 
more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath 
untrod, 

One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sorrow  for 
angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult 
to  God ! 

Life’s  night  begins ; let  him  never  come  back 
to  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 

Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of 
twilight, 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again  ! 

33 


Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike 
gallantly, 

Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through  his 
own ; 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and 
wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  Heaven,  the  first  by  the 
throne ! 

Robert  Browning. 


ON  THE  FUNERAL  OF  CHARLES 
THE  FIRST, 

AT  NIGHT  IN  6T.  GEORGE’S  CHAPEL,  WINDSOR. 

The  castle  clock  had  tolled  midnight. 

With  mattock  and  with  spade — 

And  silent,  by  the  torches’  light — 

His  corse  in  earth  we  laid. 

The  coffin  bore  his  name ; that  those 
Of  other  years  might  know, 

When  earth  its  secrets  should  disclose, 
Whose  bones  were  laid  below. 

“Peace  to  the  dead!  ” no  children  sung, 
Slow  pacing  up  the  nave ; 

No  prayers  were  read,  no  knell  was  rung, 
As  deep  we  dug  his  grave. 

We  only  heard  the  winter’s  wind, 

In  many  a sullen  gust, 

As  o’er  the  open  grave  inclined, 

We  murmured,  “Dust  to  dust ! ” 

A moonbeam  from  the  arch’s  height 
Streamed,  as  we  placed  the  stone 

The  long  aisles  started  into  light, 

And  all  the  windows  shone. 

We  thought  we  saw  the  banners  then 
That  shook  along  the  walls, 

Whilst  the  sad  shades  of  mailed  men 
Were  gazing  on  the  stalls. 

’T  is  gone ! — Again  on  tombs  defaced 
Sits  darkness  more  profound ; 

And  only  by  the  torch  we  traced 
The  shadows  on  the  ground. 


514 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


And  now  the  chilling,  freezing  air 
Without  blew  long  and  loud ; 

Upon  our  knees  we  breathed  one  prayer, 
Where  he  slept  in  his  shroud. 

We  laid  the  broken  marble  floor, — 

No  name,  no  trace  appears ! 

And  when  we  closed  the  sounding  door, 
We  thought  of  him  with  tears. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 

Not  a drum  was  heard,  nor  a funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 
Not  a soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O’er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sod  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeams’  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  inclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  bound  him ; 
But  he  lay  like  a warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him ! 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 
And  we  spoke  not  a word  of  sorrow ; 

But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the 
dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o’er 
his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they  ’ll  talk  of  the  spirit  that ’s  gone, 
And  o’er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him — 

But  little  he  ’ll  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 
In  the  grave  where  a Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retir- 
ing; 

And  we  knew  by  the  distant  random  gun, 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 


Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 
We  carved  not  a line,  we  raised  not  a stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GEORGE  THE 
THIRD. 

WRITTEN  UNDER  WINDSOR  TERRACE. 

I saw  him  last  on  this  terrace  proud, 
Walking  in  health  and  gladness, 

Begirt  with  his  court ; and  in  all  the  crowd 
Not  a single  look  of  sadness. 

Bright  was  the  sun,  the  leaves  were  green — 
Blithely  the  birds  were  singing ; 

The  cymbals  replied  to  the  tambourine, 

And  the  bells  were  merrily  ringing. 

I have  stood  with  the  crowd  beside  his  bier, 
When  not  a word  was  spoken — 

When  every  eye  was  dim  with  a tear, 

And  the  silence  by  sobs  was  broken. 

I have  heard  the  earth  on  his  coffin  pour 
To  the  muffled  drums,  deep  rollrng, 

While  the  minute-gun,  with  its  solemn  roar, 
Drowned  the  death-bells’  tolling. 

The  time — since  he  walked  in  his  glory  thus, 
To  the  grave  till  I saw  him  carried — 

Was  an  age  of  the  mightiest  change  to  us, 
But  to  him  a night  unvaried. 

A daughter  beloved,  a queen,  a son, 

And  a son’s  sole  child,  have  perished ; 

And  sad  was  each  heart,  save  only  the  one 
By  which  they  were  fondest  cherished ; 

For  his  eyes  were  sealed  and  his  mind  was 
dark, 

And  he  sat  in  his  age’s  lateness — 

Like  a vision  throned,  as  a solemn  mark 
Of  the  frailty  of  human  greatness ; 

His  silver  beard,  o’er  a bosom  spread 
Unvexed  by  life’s  commotion, 

Like  a yearly  lengthening  snow-drift  shed 
On  the  calm  of  a frozen  ocean. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 


615 


Still  o’er  him  Oblivion’s  waters  lay, 

Though  the  stream  of  life  kept  flowing ; 
When  they  spoke  of  our  king,  ’t  was  hut  to 
say 

The  old  man’s  strength  was  going. 

At  intervals  thus  the  waves  disgorge, 

By  weakness  rent  asunder, 

A piece  of  the  wreck  of  the  Royal  George, 

To  the  people’s  pity  and  wonder. 

He  is  gone  at  length — he  is  laid  in  the  dust, 
Death’s  hand  his  slumbers  breaking  ; 

For  the  coffined  sleep  of  the  good  and  just 
Is  a sure  and  blissful  waking. 

His  people’s  heart  is  his  funeral  urn ; 

And  should  sculptured  stone  be  denied  him, 
There  will  his  name  be  found,  when  in  turn 
We  lay  our  heads  beside  him. 

Hobace  Smith. 


THE  WARDEN  OF  THE  CINQUE  PORTS. 

A mist  was  driving  down  the  British  chan- 
nel; 

The  day  was  just  begun ; 

And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and 
panel, 

Streamed  the  red  Autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pen- 
non, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships ; 

And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black 
cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and 
Dover, 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 

To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 

Holding  their  breath,  had  watched  in  grim 
defiance 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 


And  now  they  roared,  at  drum-beat,  from 
their  stations 
On  every  citadel ; 

Each  answering  each,  with  morning  saluta- 
tions, 

That  all  was  well! 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden. 
Replied  the  distant  forts — 

As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 
And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of 
azure, 

No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 

No  morning  gun  from  the  black  forts’  embra- 
zure, 

Awaken  with  their  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 
The  long  line  of  the  coast, 

Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  field-marshal 
Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 

Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 
The  rampart  wall  has  scaled ! 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper — 
The  dark  and  silent  room ; 

And,  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 
The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley,  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar — 

Ah!  what  a blow! — that  made  all  England 
tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited. 
The  sun  rose  bright  o’erhead — 

Nothing  in  Nature’s  aspect  intimated 
That  a great  man  was  dead ! 

Henby  Wadswobth  Longfellow. 


516 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


STANZAS  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
THOMAS  HOOD. 

i. 

Take  back  into  thy  bosom,  Earth, 

This  joyous,  May-eyed  morrow, 

The  gentlest  child  that  ever  Mirth 
Gave  to  be  reared  by  Sorrow ! 

’T  is  hard — while  rays  half  green,  half  gold, 
Through  vernal  bowers  are  burning, 

And  streams  their  diamond-mirrors  hold 
To  Summer’s  face  returning — 

To  say  we  ’re  thankful  that  his  sleep 
Shall  never  more  be  lighter, 

In  whose  sweet-tongued  companionship 
Stream,  bower,  and  beam  grew  brighter ! 

11. 

But  all  the  more  intensely  true 
His  soul  gave  out  each  feature 
Of  elemental  love — each  hue 
And  grace  of  golden  Nature — 

The  deeper  still  beneath  it  all 
Lurked  the  keen  jags  of  anguish ; 

The  more  the  laurels  clasped  his  brow 
Their  poison  made  it  languish. 

Seemed  it  that  like  the  nightingale 
Of  his  own  mournful  singing, 

The  tenderer  would  his  song  prevail 
While  most  the  thorn  was  stinging. 

m. 

So  never  to  the  desert-worn 
Did  fount  bring  freshness  deeper, 

Than  that  his  placid  rest  this  morn 
Has  brought  the  shrouded  sleeper. 

That  rest  may  lap  his  weary  head 
Where  charnels  choke  the  city, 

Or  where,  mid  woodlands,  by  his  bed 
The  wren  shall  wake  its  ditty ; 

But  near  or  far,  while  evening’s  star 
Is  dear  to  hearts  regretting, 

Around  that  spot  admiring  Thought 
Shall  hover,  unforgetting. 

IV. 

And  if  this  sentient,  seething  world 
Is,  after  all,  ideal, 

Or  in  the  Immaterial  furled 
Alone  resides  the  real, 


Freed  one ! there ’s  a wail  for  thee  this  hour 
Through  thy  loved  Elves’  dominions ; 
Hushed  is  each  tiny  trumpet-flower, 

And  droopeth  Ariel’s  pinions ; 

Even  Puck,  dejected,  leaves  his  swing, 

To  plan,  with  fond  endeavor, 

What  pretty  buds  and  dews  shall  keep 
Thy  pillow  bright  for  ever. 

v. 

And  higher,  if  less  happy,  tribes— 

The  race  of  early  childhood — 

Shall  miss  thy  whims  of  frolic  wit, 

That  in  the  summer  wild-wood, 

Or  by  the  Christmas  hearth,  were  hailed, 
And  hoarded  as  a treasure 
Of  undecaying  merriment 
And  ever-changing  pleasure. 

Things  from  thy  lavish  humor  flung 
Profuse  as  scents,  are  flying 
This  kindling  morn,  when  blooms  are  born 
As  fast  as  blooms  are  dying. 

VI. 

Sublimer  Art  owned  thy  control- 
The  minstrel’s  mightiest  magic, 

With  sadness  to  subdue  the  soul, 

Or  thrill  it  with  the  tragic. 

Now  listening  Aram’s  fearful  dream, 

We  see  beneath  the  willow 
That  dreadful  Thing,  or  watch  him  steal, 
Guilt-lighted,  to  his  pillow. 

Now  with  thee  roaming  ancient  groves, 

We  watch  the  woodman  felling 
The  funeral  elm,  while  through  its  boughs 
The  ghostly  wind  comes  knelling. 

VII. 

Dear  worshipper  of  Dian’s  face 
In  solitary  places, 

Shalt  thou  no  more  steal,  as  of  yore, 

To  meet  her  white  embraces  ? 

Is  there  no  purple  in  the  rose 
Henceforward  to  thy  senses  ? 

For  thee  have  dawn  and  daylight’s  close 
Lost  their  sweet  influences  ? 

No ! — by  the  mental  night  untamed 
Thou  took’st  to  Death’s  dark  portal, 

The  joy  of  the  wide  universe 
Is  now  to  thee  immortal  I 


A POET’S  EPITAPH. 


517 


f 


VIII. 

How  fierce  contrasts  tlie  city’s  roar 
With  thy  new-conquered  quiet! — 

This  stunning  hell  of  wheels  that  pour 
With  princes  to  their  riot ! 

Loud  clash  the  crowds — the  busy  clouds 
With  thunder-noise  are  shaken, 

While  pale,  and  mute,  and  cold,  afar 
Thou  liest,  men-forsaken. 

Hot  life  reeks  on,  nor  recks  that  one 
— The  playful,  human-hearted — 

Who  lent  its  clay  less  earthiness, 

Is  just  from  earth  departed. 

B.  Simmons. 


The  world  and  all  its  manifold  creation  sleep- 
ing— 

The  great  and  small — 

Will  there  be  one,  even  at  that  dread  hour, 
weeping 

For  me — for  all  ? 

When  no  star  twinkles  with  its  eye  of  glory 

On  that  low  mound, 

And  wintry  storms  have  with  their  ruins 
hoary 

Its  loneness  crowned, 

Will  there  he  then  one  versed  in  Misery’s 
story 

Pacing  it  round  ? 


WHEN  I BENEATH  THE  COLD,  RED 
EARTH  AM  SLEEPING. 

When  I beneath  the  cold,  red  earth  am  sleep- 
ing, 

Life’s  fever  o’er, 

Will  there  for  me  be  any  bright  eye  weeping 
That  I ’m  no  more  ? 

Will  there  be  any  heart  still  memory  keeping 
Of  heretofore  ? 

When  the  great  winds,  through  leafless  for- 
ests rushing, 

Like  full  hearts  break — 

When  the  swoll’n  streams,  o’er  crag  and  gully 
gushing, 

Sad  music  make — 

Will  there  be  one,  whose  heart  Despair  is 
crushing, 

Mourn  for  my  sake  ? 


It  may  be  so — but  this  is  selfish  sorrow 
To  ask  such  meed — 

A weakness  and  a wickedness,  to  borrow 
From  hearts  that  bleed 
The  wailings  of  to-day,  for  what  to-morrow 
Shall  never  need. 

Lay  me  then  gently  in  my  narrow  dwelling, 
Thou  gentle  heart ! 

And,  though  thy  bosom  should  with  grief  be 
swelling, 

Let  no  tear  start ; 

It  were  in  vain — for  Time  hath  long  been 
knelling — 

Sad  one,  depart ! 

William  Motherwell. 


A POET’S  EPITAPH. 


When  the  bright  sun  upon  that  spot  is  shin- 
ing 

With  purest  ray, 

And  the  small  flowers,  their  buds  and  blos- 
soms twining, 

Burst  through  that  clay — 

Will  there  be  one  still  on  that  spot  repining 
Lost  hopes  all  day  ? 

When  the  Night  shadows,  with  the  ample 
sweeping 

Of  her  dark  pall, 


Stop,  Mortal ! Here  thy  brother  lies — 
The  Poet  of  the  Poor. 

His  books  were  rivers,  woods,  and  skies, 
The  meadow  and  the  moor ; 

His  teachers  were  the  torn  heart’s  wail, 
The  tyrant  and  the  slave, 

The  street,  the  factory,  the  jail, 

The  palace — and  the  grave ! 

Sin  met  thy  brother  every  where ! 

And  is  thy  brother  blamed  ? 

From  passion,  danger,  doubt,  and  care, 

He  no  exemption  claimed. 

The  meanest  thing,  earth’s  feeblest  worm, 


518 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


He  feared  to  scorn  or  hate ; 

But,  honoring  in  a peasant’s  form 
The  equal  of  the  great, 

He  blessed  the  steward,  whose  wealth  makes 
The  poor  man’s  little,  more ; 

Yet  loathed  the  haughty  wretch  that  takes 
From  plundered  Labor’s  store. 

A hand  to  do,  a head  to  plan, 

A heart  to  feel  and  dare — 

Tell  Man’s  worst  foes,  here  lies  the  man 
Who  drew  them  as  they  are. 

Ebexezer  Elliott. 


SOLITUDE. 

It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low 
That  makes  this  silent  tear  to  flow ; 

It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan ; 

It  is  that  I am  all  alone. 

In  woods  and  glens  I love  to  roam, 

When  the  tired  hedger  hies  him  home ; 
Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest, 

When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 

Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs 
With  hallowed  airs  and  symphonies, 

My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 

And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 

The  Autumn  leaf  is  sere  and  dead — 

It  floats  upon  the  water’s  bed ; 

I would  not  be  a leaf,  to  die 
Without  recording  Sorrow’s  sigh ! 

The  woods  and  winds,  with  sullen  wail, 
Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale ; 

I ’ve  none  to  smile  when  I am  free, 

And  when  I sigh  to  sigh  with  me. 

Yet  in  my  dreams  a form  I view, 

That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too ; 

I start,  and  when  the  vision ’s  flown, 

I weep  that  I am  all  alone. 

Henry  Kirkb  White. 


A LAMENT. 

Swiftee  far  than  Summer’s  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth’s  delight, 

Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone ; 

As  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 

As  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 

As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

I am  left  lone,  alone. 

The  swallow  Summer  comes  again ; 

The  owlet  Night  resumes  her  reign ; 
But  the  wild  swan  Youth  is  fain 
To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 

My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow ; 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow ; 

Vainly  would  my  Winter  borrow 
Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough : 

Lilies  for  a bridal  bed, 

Roses  for  a matron’s  head, 

Violets  for  a maiden  dead — 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be ; 

On  the  living  grave  I bear, 

Scatter  them  without  a tear ; 

Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


“CALM  IS  THE  NIGHT.” 

Calm  is  the  night,  and  the  city  is  sleeping — 
Once  in  this  house  dwelt  a lady  fair, 

Long,  long  ago,  she  left  it,  weeping; 

But  still  the  old  house  is  standing  there. 

Yonder  a man  at  the  heavens  is  staring, 
Wringing  his  hands  as  in  sorrowful  case ; 
He  turns  to  the  moonlight,  his  countenance 
baring — 

0,  heaven!  he  shows  me  my  own  sad  face! 

Shadowy  form,  with  my  own  agreeing ! 

Why  mockest  thou  thus,  in  the  moonlight 
cold, 

The  sorrows  which  here  once  vexed  my  being. 
Many  a night  in  the  days  of  old  ? 

Henry  Heine  (German). 
Translation  of  Charles  G.  Leland. 


THE  FISHING  SONG. 


519 


THE  CASTLE  BY  THE  SEA. 

“ Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea? 

Golden  and  red,  above  it 
The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

“ And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward 
To  the  mirrored  wave  below ; 

And  fain  it  would  soar  upward 
In  the  evening’s  crimson  glow.” 

“Well  have  I seen  that  castle, 

That  Castle  by  the  Sea — 

And  the  moon  above  it  standing, 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly.” 

“ The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

Had  they  a merry  chime  ? 

Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

The  harp  and  the  minstrel’s  rhyme?” 

\ 

“ The  winds  and  the  waves  of  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly ; 

But  I heard  on  the  gale  a sound  of  wail, 
And  tears  came  to  mine  eye.” 

“ And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 
The  king  and  his  royal  bride  ? 

And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles  ? 
And  the  golden  crown  of  pride  ? 

“ Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A beauteous  maiden  there — 
Kesplendent  as  the  morning  sun, 

Beaming  with  golden  hair?” 

“Well  saw  I the  ancient  parents, 

Without  the  crown  of  pride ; 

They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe  • 
Ho  maiden  was  by  their  side ! ” 

Ltd  wig  Uhl  and  (Gennan). 
Translation  of  Henby  W.  Longfellow. 


DESOLATION". 

Think  ye  the  desolate  must  live  apart, 

By  solemn  vows  to  convent-walls  confined? 
Ah  I no ; with  men  may  dwell  the  cloistered 
heart, 

And  in  a crowd  the  isolated  mind. 


Tearless,  behind  the  prison-bars  of  fate, 

The  world  sees  not  how  desolate  they  stand, 
Gazing  so  fondly  through  the  iron  grate 
Upon  the  promised  yet  forbidden  land — 
Patience  the  shrine  to  which  their  bleeding 
feet, 

Day  after  day,  in  voiceless  penance  turn ; 
Silence  the  holy  cell  and  calm  retreat 
In  which  unseen  their  meek  devotions  burn ; 
Life  is  to  them  a vigil  which  none  share, 
Their  hopes  a sacrifice,  their  love  a prayer. 

Henby  T.  Tcckerman. 


THE  FISHING  SONG. 

Down  in  the  wide,  gray  river 
The  current  is  sweeping  strong ; 

Over  the  wide,  gray  river 
Floats  the  fisherman’s  song. 

The  oar-stroke  times  the  singing, 

The  song  falls  with  the  oar ; 

And  an  echo  in  both  is  ringing 
I thought  to  hear  no  more. 

Out  of  a deeper  current 
The  song  brings  back  to  me 

A cry  from  mortal  silence 
Of  mortal  agony. 

Life  that  was  spent  and  vanished, 
Love  that  had  died  of  wrong, 

Hearts  that  are  dead  in  living, 

Come  back  in  the  fisherman’s  song. 

I see  the  maples  leafing, 

Just  as  they  leafed  before ; 

The  green  grass  comes  no  greener 
Down  to  the  very  shore — 

With  the  rude  strain  swelling,  sinking, 
In  the  cadence  of  days  gone  by, 

As  the  oar,  from  the  water  drinking, 
Hippies  the  mirrored  sky. 

Yet  the  soul  hath  life  diviner ; 

Its  past  returns  no  more, 

But  in  echoes,  that  answer  the  minor 
Of  the  boat-song,  from  the  shore. 


■ 


POEMS  OF  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW. 


620 

And  the  ways  of  God  are  darkness ; 

His  judgment  waiteth  long ; 

He  breaks  the  heart  of  a woman 
With  a fisherman’s  careless  song. 

Rose  Tebby. 


“BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK.” 

Bbeak,  break,  break 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  0 sea! 

And  I would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 
The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O well  for  the  fisherman’s  boy 
That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O well  for  the  sailor  lad 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on, 

To  the  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  0 for  the  touch  of  a vanished  hand, 
And  the  sound  of  a voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  0 sea ! 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a day  that  is  dead 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Altbed  Texnysox, 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  NO  MORE. 

Teabs,  idle  tears ! I know  not  what  they 
mean. 

Tears,  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair, 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 

In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn  fields, 

And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a sail 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  under- 
world ; 

Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge: 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer 
dawns 

The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a glimmering 
square : 

So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ; deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret, 

O Death  in  Life ! the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Alfbed  Texxysos. 


POEMS 


PART  VIII. 


OP  THE  IMAGINATION. 


I know  more  than  Apollo ; 

For  oft,  when  he  lies  sleeping, 

I behold  the  stars 
At  mortal  wars, 

And  the  rounded  welkin  weeping. 

The  Moon  embraces  her  shepherd ; 
And  the  Queen  of  Love  her  warrior ; 
While  the  first  doth  horn 
The  stars  of  the  morn, 

And  the  next  the  heavenly  farrier. 

With  a host  of  furious  fancies, 
Whereof  I am  commander — 

With  a burning  spear, 

And  a horse  of  air, 

To  the  wilderness  I wander ; 

With  a knight  of  ghosts  and  shadows, 
I summoned  am  to  tourney, 

Ten  leagues  beyond 
The  wide  world’s  end — 
Methinks  it  is  no  journey  ! 

Tom  o’  Bedlam. 


■ 


* 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


KING  AKTHUK’S  DEATH. 

On  Trinitye  Mondaye  in  the  morne, 

This  sore  battayle  was  doom’d  to  be, 
Where  manye  a knighte  cry’d,  Well-awaye ! — 
Alacke,  it  was  the  more  pittie. 

Ere  the  first  crowinge  of  the  cocke, 

When  as  the  kinge  in  his  bed  laye, 

He  thonghte  Sir  Gawaine  to  him  came, 

And  there  to  him  these  wordes  did  saye : 

“ Howe,  as  you  are  mine  uncle  deare, 

And  as  you  prize  your  life,  this  daye 
0 meet  not  with  your  foe  in  fighte ; 

Putt  off  the  battayle,  if  yee  maye ! 

“For  Sir  Launcelot  is  nowe  in  Fraunce, 

And  with  him  many  an  hardye  knighte, 
Who  will  within  this  moneth  be  backe, 

And  will  assiste  yee  in  the  fighte.” 

The  kinge  then  called  his  nobles  all, 

Before  the  breakinge  of  the  daye, 

And  tolde  them  howe  Sir  Gawaine  came, 
And  there  to  him  these  wordes  did  saye. 

His  nobles  all  this  counsayle  gave  : 

That,  earl  ye  in  the  morning,  hee 
Shold  send  awaye  an  herauld  at  armes, 

To  aske  a parley  faire  and  free. 

Then  twelve  good  knightes  King  Arthur  chose, 
The  best  of  all  that  with  him  were, 

To  parley  with  the  foe  in  field, 

And  make  with  him  agreement  faire. 


The  king  he  charged  all  his  hoste 
In  readinesse  there  for  to  bee ; 

But  noe  man  sholde  noe  weapon  sturre, 
Unlesse  a sword  drawne  they  shold  see. 

And  Mordred,  on  the  other  parte, 

Twelve  of  his  knights  did  likewise  bringe, 

The  beste  of  all  his  companye, 

To  holde  the  parley  with  the  kinge. 

Sir  Mordred  alsoe  charged  his  hoste 
In  readinesse  there  for  to  bee ; 

But  noe  man  sholde  noe  weapon  sturre, 

But  if  a sworde  drawne  they  shold  see. 

For  he  durste  not  his  uncle  truste, 

Hor  he  his  nephewe,  sothe  to  tell ; 

Alacke ! it  was  a woefulle  case, 

As  ere  in  Christentye  befelle. 

But  when  they  were  together  mette, 

And  both  to  faire  accordance  broughte, 

And  a month’s  league  betweene  them  sette, 
Before  the  battayle  sholde  be  foughte, 

An  addere  crepte  forthe  of  a bushe, 

Stunge  one  o’  the  king’s  knightes  on  the 
knee; 

Alacke ! it  was  a woefulle  chance, 

As  ever  was  in  Christentie. 

When  the  knighte  found  him  wounded  sore, 
And  sawe  the  wild-worme  hanginge  there, 

His  sworde  he  from  his  scabberde  drewe — 

A piteous  case,  as  ye  shall  heare 


524 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


! For  when  the  two  hostes  saw$  the  sworde 
They  joyned  battayle  instantlye ; 

1 Till  of  so  manye  noble  knightes 

On  one  side  there  were  left  hnt  three. 

For  all  were  slaine  that  dnrst  abide, 

And  bnt  some  fewe  that  fled  awaye  ; 
i Ah  mee ! it  was  a hloodye  fielde, 

As  ere  was  foughte  on  summer’s  daye. 

Upon  King  Arthur’s  own  partye 
Onlye  himselfe  escaped  there, 

And  Lukyn,  Duke  of  Gloster,  free — 

And  the  king’s  butler,  Bedevere. 

And  when  the  king  beheld  his  knightes 
All  dead  and  scattered  on  the  molde, 

; The  teares  fast  trickled  downe  his  face — 
That  manlye  face  in  fight  so  bolde. 

“Nowe  reste  yee  all,  brave  knights,”  he 
said — 

“ Soe  true  and  faithful  to  your  trust ! 

And  must  yee  then,  yee  valiant  hearts, 

Be  lefte  to  moulder  into  dust  ? 

“ Most  loyal  have  yee  been  to  mee, 

Most  true  and  faithful  unto  deathe ; 

And,  0 ! to  rayse  yee  up  againe, 

How  freelye  could  I yield  my  breathe ! 

“But  see,  the  traitor ’s  yet  alive ! 

Lo  where  hee  stalkes  among  the  deade ! 
Nowe  bitterly e he  shall  abye, 

And  vengeance  fall  upon  his  head.” 

“ 0 staye,  my  liege ! ” then  sayd  the  duke ; 

“ 0 staye  for  love  and  charitie ! 

Remember  what  the  vision  spake, 

Nor  meete  your  foe,  if  it  may  hee.” 

“ 0 staye  mee  not,  thou  worthye  wight ! 

This  debt  my  loyal  knights  I owe ; 

Betide  me  life,  betide  me  death, 

I will  avenge  them  of  their  foe.” 

Then  straite  he  grasped  his  trusty  speare, 
And  on  his  horse  then  mounted  hee  • 

^s  his  butler  holpe  him  to  his  horse 
His  bowels  gushed  to  his  knee. 


“ Alas ! ” then  sayd  the  noble  king, 

“ That  I should  live  this  sight  to  see ! — 

To  see  this  good  knight  here  he  slaine, 

All  for  his  love  in  helping  mee ! ” 

He  put  his  speare  into  his  reste, 

And  to  Sir  Mordred  loud  gan  crye : 

“Nowe  sette  thyself  upon  thy  guarde! 

For,  traitor,  nowe  thy  death  is  nye ! ” 

Sir  Mordred  lifted  up  his  sworde, 

And  fierce  to  meet  the  king  ran  hee , 

The  king  his  speare  he  through  him  thrust — ■ 
A fathom  thorow  his  bodie. 

When  Mordred  felt  the  stroke  of  death, 

And  found  that  he  was  wounded  soe, 

He  thruste  himselfe  upon  the  speare, 

And  strucke  the  king  a deadlye  blowe. 

Then  grimmlye  dyed  Sir  Mordered, 
Presentlye  opon  that  tree ; 

And  bloody  streames  ranne  from  the  kinge, 
Ere  to  the  duke  returned  hee. 

Sir  Lukyn  then  he  thus  bespake : 

“Sir  knighte,  thou  hast  been  faithfulle 
tryde; 

Nowe  take  my  sword  Excalibar, 

That  hangs  so  freelye  by  my  syde — 

“ 0 take  my  sworde  Excalibar, 

And  there  into  the  river  throwe ; 

For  here,  henceforth,  benethe  this  tree, 

All  use  of  weapons  I foregoe. 

“And  fare  thee  well,  thou  trusty e sword! 

A better  neer  had  valiant  knighte ; 

With  thee  full  ofte,  and  many  a daye, 

Have  I withstood  my  foe  in  fighte. 

“With  this  good  fauchion  in  my  hande, 

Oft  have  I reapd  the  bloody  feelde ; 

But  nowe  the  fatalle  houre  is  come, 

That  never  more  I may  thee  weelde.” 

The  duke  to  the  river  side  he  went, 

And  there  his  owne  sword  in  threwe  he ; 

But  he  kept  back  Excalibar — 

He  kept  it  back  in  privitie. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER. 


525 


For  all  of  coleyne  was  the  blade, 

And  all  the  hilte  of  precious  stone  : 

“And  ever  alacke!  ” then  sayd  the  knighte, 
“Must  such  a sword  awaye  be  throwne?  ” 

Then  backe  he  came  unto  the  kinge, 

Who  sayd,  “Sir  Lukyn,  what  did  yee 
see  ? ”• — 

“ Nothing,  my  liege,  save  that  the  winde 
Blewe  oer  the  waters  faire  and  free.” 

“ O goe  againe,”  then  said  the  kinge, 

“ 0 good  Syr  Lukyn,  goe  againe ! 

Into  the  rivere  throwe  my  sword, 

Nor  keepe  me  lingering  here  in  paine.” 

The  duke  then  to  the  river  went, 

And  the  king’s  scabbard  in  threwe  hee ; 

But  hee  kept  backe  Excalibar, 

And  hid  it  undernethe  a tree. 

Then  backe  he  came  to  tell  the  kinge, 

Who  sayde,  “ Sir  Lukyn,  sawe  ye  oughte  ? ” 

“ Nothinge,  my  liege,  save  that  the  winde 
Nowe  with  the  angrye  waters  fought.” 

“0  Lukyn,  Lukyn,”  said  the  kinge, 

“ Twice  haste  thou  dealt  deceytfullye ! 

Alacke ! whom  may  wee  ever  truste, 

When  suche  a knighte  soe  false  can  bee  ? 

“Saye,  wouldst  thou  have  thy  master  dead, 
All  for  a sword  that  wins  thine  eye  ? 

Now  goe  againe,  and  throwe  it  in, 

Or  here  the  one  of  us  shall  dye.” 

The  duke,  all  shent  with  this  rebuke, 

No  aunswere  made  unto  the  kinge ; 

But  to  the  rivere  tooke  the  sworde, 

And  threwe  it  far  as  he  coulde  flinge. 

A hande  and  an  arme  did  meete  the  sworde, 
And  flourished  three  times  in  the  air ; 

Then  sunke  benethe  the  renninge  streme, 
And  of  the  duke  was  seene  noe  mair. 

All  sore  astonied  stood  the  duke — 

He  stood  as  still  as  still  mote  bee  ; 

Then  hastend  backe  to  tell  the  kinge — 

But  he  was  gone  from  under  the  tree. 


But  to  what  place  he  cold  not  tell, 

For  never  after  hee  did  him  see ; 

But  hee  sawe  a barge  goe  from  the  land, 
And  hee  heard  ladyes  howle  and  crye. 

And  whether  the  kinge  were  there  or  not, 
Hee  never  knewe,  nor  ever  colde ; 

For  from  that  sad  and  direfulle  daye 
Hee  never  more  was  seene  on  molde. 

Anonymous. 


THOMAS  THE  RHYMER. 

Tkue  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  bank ; 

A ferlie  he  spied  wi’  his  ee ; 

And  there  he  saw  a ladye  bright, 

Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  tree. 

Her  shirt  was  o’  the  grass  green  silk, 

Her  mantle  o’  the  velvet  fyne  ; 

At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse’s  mane 
Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine. 

True  Thomas  he  pulled  aff  his  cap, 

And  louted  low  down  to  his  knee ; 

“ All  hail,  thou  mighty  Queen  of  Heaven ! 
For  thy  peer  on  earth  I never  did  see.” — 

“ O no,  0 no,  Thomas ! ” she  said, 

“That  name  does  not  belang  to  me ; 

I am  but  the  Queen  of  fair  Elfland, 

That  am  hither  come  to  visit  thee. 

“Harp  and  carp,  Thomas!  ” she  said 
“ Harp  and  carp  along  wi’  me ! 

And  if  ye  dare  to  kiss  my  lips, 

Sure  of  your  bodie  I will  be.” 

“ Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe, 

That  weird  shall  never  daunton  me.” — 

Syne  he  has  kissed  her  rosy  lips, 

All  underneath  the  Eildon  tree. 

“Now,  ye  maun  go  wi’  me,”  she  said — 

“ True  Thomas,  ye  maun  go  wi’  me  ; 

And  ye  maun  serve  me  seven  years, 

Thro’  weal  or  woe  as  may  chance  to  be.” 


526 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


She  mounted  on  her  milk-white  steed ; 

She’s  ta’en  true  Thomas  up  behind ; 

And  aye,  whene’er  her  bridle  rung, 

The  steed  flew  swifter  than  the  wind. 

And  they  rade  on,  and  farther  on — 

The  steed  gaed  swifter  than  the  wind ; 

Until  they  reached  a desert  wide, 

And  living  land  was  left  behind. 

“Light  down,  light  down,  now,  true  Thomas, 
And  lean  your  head  upon  my  knee ! 

Abide  and  rest  a little  space, 

And  I will  shew  you  ferlies  three. 

“ O see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road, 

So  thick  beset  with  thorns  and  briers  ? 

That  is  the  path  of  righteousness, 

Though  after  it  but  few  enquires. 

“And  see  ye  not  that  braid,  braid  road, 

That  lies  across  that  lily  leven  ? 

That  is  the  path  of  wickedness — 

Though  some  call  it  the  road  to  heaven. 

“And  see  not  ye  that  bonny  road, 

That  winds  about  the  fernie  brae  ? 

That  is  the  road  to  fair  Elfland, 

Where  thou  and  I this  night  maun  gae. 

“But,  Thomas,  ye  maun  hold  your  tongue, 
Whatever  ye  may  hear  or  see ; 

For,  if  you  speak  word  in  Elfyn  land, 

Ye’ll  ne’er  get  back  to  your  ain  countrie.” 

O they  rade  on,  and  farther  on, 

And  they  waded  through  rivers  aboon  the 
knee ; 

And  they  saw  neither  sun  nor  moon, 

But  they  heard  the  roaring  of  the  sea. 

It  was  mirk,  mirk  night,  and  there  was  nae 
stern  light, 

And  they  waded  through  red  blude  to  the 
knee ; 

For  a’  the  blude  that’s  shed  on  earth 

Kins  through  the  springs  o’  that  countrie. 

Syne  they  came  on  to  a garden  green, 

And  she  pu’d  an  apple  frae  a tree : 

“ Take  this  for  thy  wages,  true  Thomas — 

It  will  give  thee  the  tongue  that  can  never 
lie.” 


“ My  tongue  is  mine  ain ; ” true  Thomas  said ; 

“A  gudely  gift  ye  wad  gie  to  me ! 

I neither  dought  to  buy  nor  sell, 

At  fair  or  tryst  where  I may  be. 

“ I dought  neither  speak  to  prince  or  peer, 
Nor  ask  of  grace  from  fair  ladye.” — 

“ Now  hold  thy  peace ! ” the  lady  said, 

• “For  as  I say,  so  must  it  be.”— 

He  has  gotten  a coat  of  the  even  cloth, 

And  a pair  of  shoes  of  velvet  green ; 

And  till  seven  years  were  gane  and  past, 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen. 

Anonymous. 


THE  WEE  WEE  MAN. 

As  I was  walking  by  my  lane, 

Atween  a water  and  a wa, 

There  sune  I spied  a wee,  wee  man — 

He  was  the  least  that  ere  I saw. 

His  legs  were  scant  a shathmont’s  length, 
And  sma  and  limber  was  his  thie ; 
Between  his  een  there  was  a span, 

Betwixt  his  shoulders  there  were  ells  three. 

• 

He  has  tane  up  a meikle  stane, 

And  flang ’t  as  far  as  I cold  see ; 

Ein  thouch  I had  been  Wallace  wicht, 

I dought  na  lift  it  to  my  knie. 

“ O wee,  wee  man,  but  ye  be  strang ! 

Tell  me  whar  may  thy  dwelling  be  ?” 

“I  dwell  beneth  that  bonnie  bouir — 

O will  ye  gae  wi  me  and  see  ? ” 

On  we  lap,  and  awa  we  rade, 

Till  we  cam  to  a bonny  green  ; 

We  lichted  syne  to  bait  our  steid, 

And  out  there  cam  a lady  sheen — 

Wi  four  and  twentie  at  her  back, 

A comely  cled  in  glistering  green ; 

Thouch  there  the  King  of  Scots  had  stude, 
The  warst  micht  weil  hae  been  his  queen. 


THE  MERRY  PRANKS  OF  ROBIN  GOOD-FELLOW. 


527 


On  syne  we  past  wi  wonderiEg  cheir, 

Till  we  cam  to  a bonny  ha ; 

The  roof  was  o’  the  beaten  gowd, 

The  flure  was  o’  the  crystal  a’. 

When  we  cam  there,  wi  wee,  wee  knichts 
War  ladies  dancing,  jimp  and  sma ; 

But  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eie 
Baith  green  and  ha  war  clein  awa. 

Anonymous. 


THE  MERRY  PRANKS  OF  ROBIN 
GOOD-FELLOW 

Feom  Oberon,  in  fairy  land, 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadowes  there, 
Mad  Robin,  I,  at  his  command, 

Am  sent  to  view  the  night-sports  here. 
What  revell  rout 
Is  kept  about 

In  every  corner  where  I go, 

I will  o’ersee, 

And  merrie  be, 

And  make  good  sport  with  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

More  swift  than  lightning  can  I flye 
About  the  aery  welkin  soone, 

And  in  a minute’s  space  descrye 
Each  thing  that ’s  done  belowe  the  moone. 
There ’s  not  a hag 
Or  ghost  shall  wag, 

Or  cry  ’ware  goblins ! where  I go ; 

But  Robin,  I, 

Their  feates  will  spy, 

And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

I 

Whene’er  such  wanderers  I meete, 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge  home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I greete, 

And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roame. 

Thro’  woods,  thro’  lakes, 

Thro’  bogs,  thro’  brakes, 

Or  else  unseene,  with  them  I go — 

All  in  the  nicke, 

To  play  some  tricke, 

And  frolick  it  with  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


Sometimes  I meete  them  like  a man — 
Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a hound ; 

And  to  a horse  I turn  me  can, 

To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round ; 

But,  if  to  ride. 

My  backe  they  stride, 

More  swift  than  wind  away  I goe ; 

O’er  hedge  and  lands, 

Thro’  pools  and  ponds, 

I whirry,  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be, 

With  possets,  and  with  junkets  fine, 
Unseene  of  all  the  company, 

I eat  their  cakes,  and  sip  their  wine ; 

And  to  make  sport, 

I fume  and  snort, 

And  out  the  candles  I do  blow. 

The  maids  I kiss ; 

They  shrieke,  Who ’s  this  ? 

I answer  nought  but  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I card  up  their  wooll ; 

And  while  they  sleepe  and  take  their  ease 
With  wheel  to  threads  their  flax  I pull. 

I grind  at  mill 
Their  malt  up  still ; 

I dress  their  hemp,  I spin  their  tow. 

If  any  wake, 

And  would  me  take, 

I wend  me  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  house  or  hearth  doth  sluttish  lye, 

I pinch  the  maidens  black  and  blue ; 

The  bedd-clothes  from  the  bedd  pull  I, 

And  in  their  ear  I bawl  too-whoo  ! 

’Twixt  sleepe  and  wake 
I do  them  take, 

And  on  the  clay-cold  floor  them  throw , 
If  out  they  cry, 

Then  forth  I fly, 

And  loudly  laugh  out  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  any  need  to  borrow  ought, 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  require ; 

And  for  the  use  demand  we  nought — 

Our  owne  is  all  we  do  desire. 

If  to  repay 
They  do  delay, 


528 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Abroad  amongst  them  then  I go ; 

And  night  by  night 
I them  affright, 

"With  pinchings,  dreams,  and  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  lazie  queans  have  nought  to  do 
But  study  how  to  cog  and  lye, 

To  make  debate  and  mischief  too, 

’Twixt  one  another  secretly, 

I marke  their  gloze, 

And  it  disclose 

To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so. 
When  I have  done 
I get  me  gone, 

And  leave  them  scolding,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 
In  loope  holes,  where  the  vermine  creepe, 
Who  from  their  foldes  and  houses  get 

Their  duckes  and  geese,  and  lambes  and 
sheepe, 

I spy  the  gin, 

And  enter  in, 

And  seeme  a vermin  taken  so ; 

But  when  they  there 
Approach  me  neare, 

I leap  out  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadowes  green, 

We  nightly  dance  our  hey-day  guise ; 

And  to  our  fairy e kinge  and  queene 

We  chaunt  our  moon-lighte  minstrelsies. 
When  larkes  gin  singe 
Away  we  Hinge, 

And  babes  new-born  steale  as  we  go ; 
And  shoes  in  bed 
We  leave  instead, 

And  wend  us  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin’s  time  have  I 
Thus  nightly  revelled  to  and  fro ; 

And,  for  my  prankes,  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Kobin  Good- Fellow. 

Friends,  ghosts,  and  sprites 
Who  haunt  the  nightes, 

The  hags  and  gobblins,  do  me  know ; 
And  beldames  old 
My  feates  have  told — 

So  vale , vale  ! Ho,  ho,  ho ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  FAIRY  QUEEN. 

Come,  follow,  follow  me — 

You,  fairy  elves  that  be, 

Which  circle  on  the  green — 

Come,  follow  Mab,  your  queen ! 

Hand  in  hand  let ’s  dance  around, 

For  this  place  is  fairy  ground. 

When  mortals  are  at  rest, 

And  snoring  in  their  nest, 

Unheard  and  unespied, 

Through  keyholes  we  do  glide ; 

Over  tables,  stools,  and  shelves, 

We  trip  it  with  our  fairy  elves. 

And  if  the  house  be  foul 
With  platter,  dish,  or  bowl, 

Up  stairs  we  nimbly  creep, 

And  find  the  sluts  asleep  ; 

There  we  pinch  their  arms  and  thighs — 
None  escapes,  nor  none  espies 

But  if  the  house  be  swept, 

And  from  uncleanness  kept, 

We  praise  the  household  maid, 

And  duly  she  is  paid ; 

For  we  use,  before  we  go, 

To  drop  a tester  in  her  shoe. 

Upon  a mushroom’s  head 
Our  table  cloth  we  spread ; 

A grain  of  rye  or  wheat 
Is  manchet,  which  we  eat ; 

Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink, 

In  acorn  cups,  filled  to  the  brink. 

The  brains  of  nightingales, 

With  unctuous  fat  of  snails, 

Between  two  cockles  stewed, 

Is  meat  that ’s  easily  chewed ; 

Tails  of  worms,  and  marrow  of  mice, 

Do  make  a dish  that ’s  wondrous  nice. 

The  grasshopper,  gnat,  and  fly, 

Serve  us  for  our  minstrelsy ; 

Grace  said,  we  dance  a while, 

And  so  the  time  beguile ; 

And  if  the  moon  doth  hide  her  head, 
The  glow-worm  lights  us  home  to  bed. 


FAIRY  SONG. 


529 


On  tops  of  dewy  grass 
So  nimbly  do  we  pass, 

The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne’er  bends  when  we  do  walk ; 

Yet  in  the  morning  may  be  seen 
Where  we  the  night  before  have  been. 

Anonymous. 


THE  FAIRIES’  SONG. 

We  dance  on  hills  above  the  wind, 

And  leave  our  footsteps  there  behind ; 
Which  shall  to  after  ages  last, 

When  all  our  dancing  days  are  past. 

Sometimes  we  dance  upon  the  shore, 

To  whistling  winds  and  seas  that  roar ; 
Then  we  make  the  wind  to  blow, 

And  set  the  seas  a-dancing  too. 

The  thunder’s  noise  is  our  delight, 

And  lightnings  make  us  day  by  night ; 

And  in  the  air  we  dance  on  high, 

To  the  loud  music  of  the  sky. 

About  the  moon  we  make  a ring, 

Amd  falling  stars  we  wanton  fling, 

Like  squibs  and  rockets,  for  a toy ; 

While  what  frights  others  is  our  joy. 

But  when  we ’d  hunt  away  our  cares, 

We  boldly  mount  the  galloping  spheres ; 
And,  riding  so  from  east  to  west, 

We  chase  each  nimble  zodiac  beast. 

Thus,  giddy  grown,  we  make  our  beds, 
With  thick,  black  clouds  to  rest  our  heads, 
And  flood  the  earth  with  our  dark  showers, 
That  did  but  sprinkle  these  our  bowers. 

Thus,  having  done  with  orbs  and  sky, 
Those  mighty  spaces  vast  and  high, 

Then  down  we  come  and  take  the  shapes, 
Sometimes  of  cats,  sometimes  of  apes. 

Next,  turned  to  mites  in  cheese,  forsooth, 
We  get  into  some  hollow  tooth ; 

Wherein,  as  in  a Christmas  hall, 

We  frisk  and  dance,  the  devil  and  all. 

34 


Then  we  change  our  wily  features 
Into  yet  far  smaller  creatures, 

And  dance  in  joints  of  gouty  toes, 

To  painful  tunes  of  groans  and  woes. 

Anonymous. 


SONG  OF  THE  FAIRY. 

Over  hill,  over  dale, 

Thorough  bush,  thorough  brier, 

Over  park,  over  pale, 

Thorough  flood,  thorough  fire, 

I do  wander  every  where, 

Swifter  than  the  moon’s  sphere ; 

And  I serve  the  fairy  queen, 

To  dew  her  orbs  upon  the  green ; 

The  cowslips  tall  her  pensioners  be ; 

In  their  gold  coats  spots  you  see : 
These  be  rubies,  fairy  favors — 

In  those  freckles  live  their  savors. 

I must  go  seek  some  dewdrops  here, 

And  hang  a pearl  in  every  cowslip’s  ear. 

Shakespeare. 


FAIRY  SONG. 

Shed  no  tear ! O shed  no  tear ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 

Weep  no  more ! O weep  no  more ! 

Young  buds  sleep  in  the  root’s  white  core. 
Dry  your  eyes ! O dry  your  eyes ! 

For  I was  taught  in  Paradise 
To  ease  my  breast  of  melodies — 

Shed  no  tear. 

Overhead ! look  overhead ! 

’Mong  the  blossoms  white  and  red-  • 
Look  up,  look  up  ! I flutter  now 
On  this  fresh  pomegranate  bough. 

See  me  I ’t  is  this  silvery  bill 
Ever  cures  the  good  man’s  ill. 

Shed  no  tear ! O shed  no  tear ! 

The  flower  will  bloom  another  year. 
Adieu,  adieu — I fly — adieu ! 

I vanish  in  the  heaven’s  blue — 

Adieu,  adieu ! 

John  Keats. 


530  POEMS  OF  THE 


SONG  OF  FAIRIES. 

We  the  fairies,  blithe  and  antic, 

Of  dimensions  not  gigantic, 

Though  the  moonshine  mostly  keep  us, 
Oft  in  orchards  frisk  and  peep  us. 

Stolen  sweets  are  always  sweeter ; 

Stolen  kisses  much  completer ; 

Stolen  looks  are  nice  in  chapels : 

Stolen,  stolen  be  your  apples. 

When  to  bed  the  world  are  bobbing, 

Then ’s  the  time  for  orchard-robbing ; 
Yet  the  fruit  were  scarce  worth  peeling 
Were  it  not  for  stealing,  stealing. 

Thomas  Randolph.  (Latin.) 
Translation  of  Leigh  Hunt. 


LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCI. 

A BALLAD. 

l. 

0 what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms ! 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 

The  sedge  has  withered  from  the  lake, 
And  no  birds  sing. 

n. 

0 what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms ! 
So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 

The  squirrel’s  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest ’s  done. 

m. 

1 see  a lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew ; 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a fading  rose 
Fast  witheretli  too. 

IV. 

1 met  a lady  in  the  mead — 

Full  beautiful,  a fairy’s  child ; 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 


IMAGINATION. 


v. 

I made  a garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ; 

She  looked  at  me  as  she  did  love, 

And  made  sweet  moan. 

VI. 

I set  her  on  my  pacing  steed, 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long ; 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A fairy  song. 

VII. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew ; 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said — 

“ I love  thee  true.” 

VIII. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 

And  there  she  wept,  and  sighed  full  sore ; 
And  there  I shut  her  wild,  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 

IX. 

And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep ; 

And  there  I dreamed — Ah ! woe  betide ! 
The  latest  dream  I ever  dreamed 
On  the  cold  hill’s  side. 

x. 

I saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too — 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all ; 
They  cried — “ La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall ! ” 

XI. 

I saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam, 

With  horrid  warning  gap6d  wide  ; 

And  I awoke  and  found  me  here, 

On  the  cold  hill’s  side. 

xn. 

And  this  is  why  I sojourn  here, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 

Though  the  sedge  is  withered  from  the 
lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

John  Keats. 


KILMENY. 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira’s  men, 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  only  to  hear  the  Yorlin  sing, 

And  pu’  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring — 
The  scarlet  hypp,  and  the  hind  berry, 

And  the  nut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel  tree ; 
For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o’er  the  wa’, 
And  lang  may  she  seek  i’  the  green-wood 
shaw; 

Lang  the  laird  of  Duneira  blame, 

And  lang,  lang  greet  or  Kilmeny  come  harne. 

When  many  a day  had  come  and  fled, 
When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 
When  mass  for  Kilmeny’s  soul  had  been  sung, 
When  the  bedes-man  had  prayed,  and  the 
dead-bell  rung, 

Late,  late  in  a gloamin,  when  all  was  still, 
When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hill, 
The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i’  the  wane, 
The  reek  o’  the  cot  hung  over  the  plain — 
Like  a little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane ; 
When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 
Late,  late  in  the  gloamin  Kilmeny  came 
hame! 

“ Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  both  holt  and  den — 

By  linn,  by  ford,  and  green-wood  tree ; 

Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 

Where  got  you  that  joup  o’  the  lily  sheen? 
That  bonny  snood  of  the  birk  sae  green? 

And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  was 
seen? 

Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? ” 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a lovely  grace, 
But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny’s  face ; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 
As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 
Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a waveless  sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  knew  not  where, 
And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not 
declare ; 


Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never 
crew, 

Where  the  rain  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never 
blew ; 

But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had 
rung, 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her 
tongue, 

When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had 
seen, 

And  a land  where  sin  had  never  been — 

A land  of  love,  and  a land  of  light, 

Withouten  sun,  or  moon,  or  night ; 

Where  the  river  swa’d  a living  stream, 

And  the  light  a pure  celestial  beam : 

The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 

A still,  an  everlasting  dream. 

In  yon  green- wood  there  is  a waik, 

And  in  that  waik  there  is  a wene, 

And  in  that  wene  there  is  a maike, 

That  neither  has  flesh,  blood,  nor  bane ; 

And  down  in  yon  green-wood  he  walks  his 
lane. 

In  that  green  wene,  Kilmeny  lay, 

Her  bosom  happed  wi’  the  flowerets  gay ; 

But  the  air  was  soft,  and  the  silence  deep, 
And  bonny  Kilmeny  fell  sound  asleep ; 

She  kend  nae  mair,  nor  opened  her  ee, 

Till  waked  by  the  hymns  of  a far  countrye. 

She  ’wakened  on  a couch  of  the  silk  sae 
slim, 

All  striped  wi’  the  bars  of  the  rainbow’s  rim ; 
And  lovely  beings  around  were  rife, 

Who  erst  had  travelled  mortal  life ; 

And  aye  they  smiled,  and  ’gan  to  speer : 

“ What  spirit  has  brought  this  mortal  here ! ” 

“Lang  have  I journeyed  the  world  wide,” 
A meek  and  reverend  fere  replied ; 

“Baith  night  and  day  I have  watched  the 
fair 

Eident  a thousand  years  and  mair. 

Yes,  I have  watched  o’er  ilk  degree, 

Wherever  blooms  femenitye ; 

But  sinless  virgin,  free  of  stain, 

In  blind  and  body,  fand  I nane. 

Never,  since  the  banquet  of  time, 

Found  I a virgin  in  her  prime, 


532 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Till  late  this  bonny  maiden  I saw, 

As  spotless  as  the  morning  snaw. 

Full  twenty  years  she  has  lived  as  free 
As  the  spirits  that  sojourn  in  this  countrye. 

I have  brought  her  away  frae  the  snares  of 
men, 

That  sin  or  death  she  may  never  ken.” 

They  clasped  her  waist  and  her  hands  sae  fair ; 
They  kissed  her  cheek,  and  they  kerned  her 
hair; 

And  round  came  many  a blooming  fere, 
Saying,  “Bonny  Kilmeny,  ye’re  welcome  here; 
"Women  are  freed  of  the  littand  scorn ; 

O,  blest  he  the  day  Kilmeny  was  horn ! 

Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a woman  may  be ! 
Many  a lang  year  in  sorrow  and  pain, 

Many  a lang  year  through  the  world  we ’ve 
gane, 

Commissioned  to  watch  fair  womankind, 

For  it’s  they  who  nurice  the  immortal  mind. 
We  have  watched  their  steps  as  the  dawning 
shone, 

And  deep  in  the  green-wood  walks  alone ; 

By  lily  bower  and  silken  bed 

The  viewless  tears  have  o’er  them  shed ; 

Have  soothed  their  ardent  minds  to  sleep, 

Or  left  the  couch  of  love  to  weep. 

We  have  seen ! we  have  seen ! but  the  time 
must  come, 

And  the  angels  will  weep  at  the  day  of  doom ! 

“ 0,  would  the  fairest  of  mortal  kind 
Aye  keep  the  holy  truths  in  mind, 

That  kindred  spirits  their  motions  see, 

Who  watch  their  ways  with  anxious  ee, 

And  grieve  for  the  guilt  of  humanitye ! 

O,  sweet  to  heaven  the  maiden’s  prayer, 

And  the  sigh  that  heaves  a bosom  sae  fair ! 
Ar.d  dear  to  Heaven  the  words  of  truth 
And  the  praise  of  virtue  frae  beauty’s  mouth ! 
And  dear  to  the  viewless  forms  of  air, 

The  minds  that  kythe  as  the  body  fair ! 

“ O,  bonny  Kilmeny ! free  frae  stain, 

If  ever  you  seek  the  world  again — 

That  world  of  sin,  of  sorrow  and  fear — 

O,  tell  of  the  joys  that  are  waiting  here; 

And  tell  of  the  signs  you  shall  shortly  setf ; 
Of  the  times  that  are  now,  and  the  times  that 
shall  be.”— 


They  lifted  Kilmeny,  they  led  her  away, 
And  she  walked  in  the  light  of  a sunless  day ; 
The  sky  was  a dome  of  crystal  bright, 

The  fountain  of  vision,  and  fountain  of  light  • 
The  emerald  fields  were  of  dazzling  glow, 
And  the  flowers  of  everlasting  blow. 

Then  deep  in  the  stream  her  body  they  laid, 
That  her  youth  and  beauty  never  might  fade  • 
And  they  smiled  on  heaven,  when  they  saw 
her  lie 

In  the  stream  of  life  that  wandered  by. 

And  she  heard  a song — she  heard  it  sung, 

She  kend  not  where ; but  sae  sweetly  it  rung, 
It  fell  on  her  ear  like  a dream  of  the  morn— 

“ 0 ! blest  be  the  day  Kilmeny  was  born ! 
Now  shall  the  land  of  the  spirits  see, 

Now  shall  it  ken,  what  a woman  may  be ! 
The  sun  that  shines  on  the  world  sae  bright, 
A borrowed  gleid  frae  the  fountain  of  light ; 
And  the  moon  that  sleeks  the  sky  sae  dun, 
Like  a gouden  bow,  or  a beamless  sun — 
Shall  wear  away,  and  be  seen  nae  mail* ; 

And  the  angels  shall  miss  them,  travelling 
the  air. 

But  lang,  lang  after  baith  night  and  day, 
When  the  sun  and  the  world  have  dyed 
away, 

When  the  sinner  has  gane  to  his  waesome 
doom, 

Kilmeny  shall  smile  in  eternal  bloom ! ” — 

They  bore  her  away,  she  wist  not  how, 

For  she  felt  not  arm  nor  rest  below ; 

But  so  swift  they  warned  her  through  the 
light, 

i ’T  was  like  the  motion  of  sound  or  sight ; 
They  seemed  to  split  the  gales  of  air, 

And  yet  nor  gale  nor  breeze  was  there. 
Unnumbered  groves  below  them  grew ; 

They  came,  they  past,  and  backward  flew, 
Like  floods  of  blossoms  gliding  on, 

In  moment  seen,  in  moment  gone. 

O,  never  vales  to  mortal  view 
Appeared  like  those  o’er  which  they  flew 
That  land  to  human  spirits  given, 

The  lowermost  vales  of  the  storied  heaven ; 
From  whence  they  can  view  the  world  below, 
And  heaven’s  blue  gates  with  sapphire£ 
glow— 

More  glory  yet  unmeet  to  know. 


! 


They  bore  her  far  to  a mountain  green, 

To  see  what  mortal  never  had  seen ; 

And  they  seated  her  high  on  a purple  sward, 
And  bade  her  heed  what  she  saw  and  heard, 
And  note  the  changes  the  spirits  wrought ; 
For  now  she  lived  in  the  land  of  thought. — 
She  looked,  and  she  saw  nor  sun  nor  skies, 
But  a crystal  dome  of  a thousand  dies ; 

She  looked,  and  she  saw  nae  land  aright, 

But  an  endless  whirl  of  glory  and  light ; 

And  radiant  beings  went  and  came, 

F ar  swifter  than  wind,  or  the  linked  flame ; 
She  hid  her  een  frae  the  dazzling  view ; 

She  looked  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  a sun  on  a summer  sky, 

And  clouds  of  amber  sailing  by ; 

A lovely  land  beneath  her  lay, 

And  that  land  had  glens  and  mountains  gray; 
And  that  land  had  valleys  and  hoary  piles, 
And  marled  seas,  and  a thousand  isles ; 

Its  fields  were  speckled,  its  forests  green, 

And  its  lakes  were  all  of  the  dazzling  sheen, 
Like  magic  mirrors,  where  slumbering  lay 
The  sun  and  the  sky  and  the  cloudlet  gray, 
Which  heaved  and  trembled,  and  gently 
swung ; 

On  every  shore  they  seemed  to  be  hung ; 

For  there  they  were  seen  on  their  downward 
plain 

A thousand  times  and  a thousand  again ; 

In  winding  lake  and  placid  firth — 

Little  peaceful  heavens  in  the  bosom  of 
earth. 

Kilmeny  sighed  and  seemed  to  grieve, 

For  she  found  her  heart  to  that  land  did 
cleave ; 

She  saw  the  corn  wave  on  the  vale ; 

She  saw  the  deer  run  down  the  dale ; 

She  saw  the  plaid  and  the  broad  claymore, 
And  the  brows  that  the  badge  of  freedom 
bore ; 

And  she  thought  she  had  seen  the  land  be- 
fore. 

She  saw  a lady  sit  on  a throne, 

The  fairest  that  ever  the  sun  shone  on ! 

A lion  licked  her  hand  of  milk, 

( And  she  held  him  in  a leish  of  silk, 

I 


533 

And  a leifu’  maiden  stood  at  her  knee, 

With  a silver  wand  and  melting  ee — 

Her  sovereign  shield,  till  Love  stole  in, 

And  poisoned  all  the  fount  within. 

Then  a gruff,  untoward  bedes-man  came, 
And  hundit  the  lion  on  his  dame ; 

And  the  guardian  maid  wi’  the  dauntless  ee, 
She  dropped  a tear,  and  left  her  knee ; 

And  she  saw  till  the  queen  frae  the  lion  fled, 
Till  the  bonniest  flower  of  the  world  lay 
dead; 

A coffin  was  set  on  a distant  plain, 

And  she  saw  the  red  blood  fall  like  rain. 
Then  bonny  Kilmeny’s  heart  grew  sair, 

And  she  turned  away,  and  could  look  nae 
mail*. 

Then  the  gruff,  grim  carle  girned  amain, 
And  they  trampled  him  down — but  he  rose 
again ; 

And  he  baited  the  lion  to  deeds  of  weir, 

Till  he  lapped  the  blood  to  the  kingdom 
dear; 

And,  weening  his  head  was  danger-preef 
When  crowned  with  the  rose  and  clover  leaf, 
He  growled  at  the  carle,  and  chased  him 
away 

To  feed  wi’  the  deer  on  the  mountain  gray. 
He  growled  at  the  carle,  and  he  gecked  at 
Heaven ; 

But  his  mark  was  set, ‘and  his  arles  given. 
Kilmeny  a while  her  een  withdrew ; 

She  looked  again,  and  the  scene  was  new. 

She  saw  below  her,  fair  unfurled, 

One  half  of  all  the  glowing  world, 

Where  oceans  rolled  and  rivers  ran, 

To  bound  the  aims  of  sinful  man. 

She  saw  a people  fierce  and  fell, 

Burst  frae  their  bounds  like  fiends  of  hell ; 
There  lilies  grew,  and  the  eagle  flew ; 

And  she  herked  on  her  ravening  crew, 

Till  the  cities  and  towers  were  wrapt  in  a 
blaze, 

And  the  thunder  it  roared  o’er  the  lands  and 
the  seas. 

The  widows  they  wailed,  and  the  red  blood 
ran, 

And  she  threatened  an  end  to  the  race  o. 
man 


KILMENY. 


534 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


She  never  lened,  nor  stood  in  awe, 

Till  caught  by  the  lion’s  deadly  paw. 

Oh ! then  the  eagle  swinked  for  life, 

And  brainzelled  np  a mortal  strife ; 

Bnt  flew  she  north,  or  flew  she  south, 

She  met  wi’  the  growl  of  the  lion’s  mouth. 

With  a mooted  wing  and  waefu’  maen, 

The  eagle  sought  her  eiry  again ; 

But  lang  may  she  cower  in  her  bloody  nest, 
And  lang,  lang  sleek  her  wounded  breast, 
Before  she  sey  another  flight, 

To  play  wi’  the  norland  lion’s  might. 

But  to  sing  the  sights  Kilmeny  saw, 

So  far  surpassing  Nature’s  law, 

The  singers  voice  wad  sink  away, 

And  the  string  of  his  harp  wad  cease  to  play. 
But  she  saw  till  the  sorrows  of  man  were  by, 
And  all  was  love  and  harmony ; 

Till  the  stars  of  heaven  fell  calmly  away, 

Like  the  flakes  of  snaw  on  a winter’s  day. 

Then  Kilmeny  begged  again  to  see 
The  friends  she  had  left  in  her  own  countrye, 
To  tell  of  the  place  where  she  had  been, 

And  the  glories  that  lay  in  the  land  unseen ; 
To  warn  the  living  maidens  fair, 

The  loved  of  Heaven,  the  spirits’  care, 

That  all  whose  minds  unmeled  remain 
Shall  bloom  in  beauty  when  Time  is  gane. 

With  distant  music,  soft  and  deep, 

They  lulled  Kilmeny  sound  asleep ; 

And  when  she  awakened,  she  lay  her  lane, 
All  happed  with  flowers  in  the  green-wood 
wene. 

When  seven  long  years  had  come  and  fled ; 
When  grief  was  calm,  and  hope  was  dead ; 
When  scarce  was  remembered  Kilmeny’s 
name, 

Late,  late  in  a gloamin,  Kilmeny  came  hame ! 
And  O,  her  beauty  was  fair  to  see, 

But  still  and  steadfast  was  her  ee ! 

Such  beauty  bard  may  never  declare, 

For  there  was  no  pride  nor  passion  there ; 
And  the  soft  desire  of  maidens’  een, 

In  that  mild  face  could  never  be  seen. 

Her  seymar  was  the  lily  flower, 

And  her  cheek  the  moss-rose  in  the  shower ; 


And  her  voice  like  the  distant  melodye 
That  floats  along  the  twilight  sea. 

But  she  loved  to  raike  the  lanely  glen, 

And  keeped  afar  frae  the  haunts  of  men ; 

Her  holy  hymns  unheard  to  sing, 

To  suck  the  flowers  and  drink  the  spring. 

But  wherever  her  peaceful  form  appeared, 
The  wild  beasts  of  the  hills  were  cheered ; 
The  wolf  played  blythely  round  the  field, 

The  lordly  by  son  lowed  and  kneeled ; 

The  dun  deer  wooed  with  manner  bland, 

And  cowered  aneath  her  lily  hand. 

And  when  at  even  the  woodlands  rung, 
When  hymns  of  other  worlds  she  sung 
In  ecstasy  of  sweet  devotion, 

0,  then  the  glen  was  all  in  motion ! 

The  wild  beasts  of  the  forest  came, 

Broke  from  their  bughts  and  faulds  the  tame, 
And  goved  around,  charmed  and  amazed ; 
Even  the  dull  cattle  crooned  and  gazed, 

And  murmured  and  looked  with  anxious  pain, 
For  something  the  mystery  to  explain. 

The  buzzard  came  with  the  throstle-cock, 

The  corby  left  her  houf  in  the  rock ; 

The  black-bird  alang  wi’  the  eagle  flew ; 

The  hind  came  tripping  o’er  the  dew ; 

The  wolf  and  the  kid  their  raike  began ; 

And  the  tod,  and  the  lamb,  and  the  leveret 
ran; 

The  hawk  and  the  hern  attour  them  hung, 
And  the  merl  and  the  mavis  forhooyed  their 
young; 

And  all  in  a peaceful  ring  were  hurled  : 

It  was  like  an  eve  in  a sinless  world ! 

When  a month  and  day  had  come  and 
gane, 

Kilmeny  sought  the  green-wood  wene ; 

There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae  green, 
And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen. 
But  0,  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth, 

W ere  words  of  wonder,  and  words  of  truth ! 
But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread, 

For  they  kend  na  whether  she  was  living  or 
dead. 

It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  re- 
main; 

She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain, 

And  returned  to  the  land  of  thought  again. 


James  Hogg. 


THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON  LOW. 


THE  FAIRIES  OF  THE  CALDON  LOW. 

A MIDSUMMER  LEGEND. 

“And  where  have  you  been,  my  Mary, 
And  where  have  you  been  from  me?” 

“ I ’ve  been  to  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low, 
The  midsummer-night  to  see ! ” 

“And  what  did  you  see,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon  Low  ? ’* 

“I  saw  the  glad  sunshine  come  down, 

And  I saw  the  merry  winds  blow.” 

“ And  what  did  you  hear,  my  Mary, 

All  up  on  the  Caldon  hill?” 

“ I heard  the  drops  of  the  water  made, 
And  the  ears  of  the  green  corn  fill.” 

“ O ! tell  me  all,  my  Mary — 

All,  all  that  ever  you  know ; 

For  you  must  have  seen  the  fairies, 

Last  night  on  the  Caldon  Low.” 

“ Then  take  me  on  your  knee,  mother ; 
And  listen,  mother  of  mine : 

A hundred  fairies  danced  last  night, 

And  the  harpers  they  were  nine ; 

“ And  their  harp-strings  rung  so  merrily 
To  their  dancing  feet  so  small ; 

But  O ! the  words  of  their  talking 
Were  merrier  far  than  all.” 

“And  what  were  the  words,  my  Mary, 
That  then  you  heard  them  say  ? ” 

“ I ’ll  tell  you  all,  my  mother ; 

But  let  me  have  my  way. 

“ Some  of  them  played  with  the  water, 
And  rolled  it  down  the  hill ; 

4 And  this,’  they  said,  ‘ shall  speedily  turn 
The  poor  old  miller’s  mill ; 

“ ‘For  there  has  been  no  water 
Ever  since  the  first  of  May ; 

And  a busy  man  will  the  miller  be 
At  dawning  of  the  day. 


635 

“ ‘ O ! the  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
When  he  sees  the  mill-dam  rise ! 

The  jolly  old  miller,  how  he  will  laugh 
Till  the  tears  fill  both  his  eyes ! ’ 

“And  some  they  seized  the  little  winds 
That  sounded  over  the  hill ; 

And  each  put  a horn  unto  his  mouth, 

And  blew  both  loud  and  shrill ; 

“ 4 And  there,’  they  said,  4 the  merry  winds 
go 

Away  from  every  horn ; 

And  they  shall  clear  the  mildew  dank 
From  the  blind,  old  widow’s  corn. 

“ ‘ O ! the  poor,  blind  widow, 

Though  she  has  been  blind  so  long, 

She  ’ll  be  blithe  enough  when  the  mildew ’s 
gone, 

And  the  corn  stands  tall  and  strong.’ 

“ And  some  they  brought  the  brown  lint- 
seed, 

And  flung  it  down  from  the  Low ; 

‘And  this,’  they  said,  ‘by  the  sunrise, 

In  the  weaver’s  croft  shall  grow. 

“ ‘ 0 ! the  poor,  lame  weaver, 

How  will  he  laugh  outright 
When  he  sees  his  dwindling  flax-field 
All  full  of  flowers  by  night ! ’ 

“ And  then  outspoke  a brownie, 

With  a long  beard  on  his  chin ; 

‘ I have  spun  up  all  the  tow,’  said  he, 

4 And  I want  some  more  to  spin. 

“ 4 1 ’ve  spun  a piece  of  hempen  cloth, 

And  I want  to  spin  another ; 

A little  sheet  for  Mary’s  bed, 

And  an  apron  for  her  mother.’ 

“ With  that  I could  not  help  but  laugh, 
And  I laughed  out  loud  and  free ; 

And  then  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
There  was  no  one  left  but  me. 

“And  all  on  the  top  of  the  Caldon  Low 
The  mists  were  cold  and  gray, 

And  nothing  I saw  but  the  mossy  stones 
That  round  about  me  lay. 


536 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


“ But,  coming  down  from  the  hill-top, 

I heard  afar  below, 

How  busy  the  jolly  miller  was, 

And  how  the  wheel  did  go. 

“ And  I peeped  into  the  widow’s  field, 
And,  sure  enough,  were  seen 

The  yellow  ears  of  the  mildewed  corn, 
All  standing  stout  and  green. 

“And  down  by  the  weaver’s  croft  I stole, 
To  see  if  the  flax  were  sprung ; 

And  I met  the  weaver  at  his  gate, 

'With  the  good  news  on  his  tongue. 

“Now  this  is  all  I heard,  mother, 

And  all  that  I did  see ; 

So,  pr’ythee,  make  my  bed,  mother, 

For  I ’m  tired  as  I can  be.” 

Maby  Ho witt. 


0 ! WHERE  DO  FAIRIES  HIDE  THEIR 
HEADS? 

0 ! where  do  fairies  hide  their  heads, 
When  snow  lies  on  the  hills — 

When  frost  has  spoiled  their  mossy  beds, 
And  crystallized  their  rills  ? 

Beneath  the  moon  they  cannot  trip 
In  circles  o’er  the  plain ; 

And  draughts  of  dew  they  cannot  sip, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

Perhaps,  in  small,  blue  diving-bells, 

They  plunge  beneath  the  waves, 

Inhabiting  the  wreathed  shells 
That  lie  in  coral  caves. 

Perhaps,  in  red  Vesuvius, 

Carousals  they  maintain ; 

And  cheer  their  little  spirits  thus, 

Till  green  leaves  come  again. 

When  they  return  there  will  be  mirth, 
And  music  in  the  air, 

And  fairy  wings  upon  the  earth, 

And  mischief  every  where. 

The  maids,  to  keep  the  elves  aloof, 

Will  bar  the  doors  in  vain ; 

No  key-hole  will  be  fairy-proof, 

When  green  leaves  come  again. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly. 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 

“My  visual  orbs  are  purged  from  film,  and,  lo ! 

Instead  of  Anster’s  turnip-bearing  vales, 

I see  old  fairy  land’s  miraculous  show ! 

Her  trees  of  tinsel  kissed  by  freakish  gales, 

Her  ouphs  that,  cloaked  in  leaf-gold,  skim  the  breeze, 

And  fairies,  swarming .” 

Tennant’s  Anstek  Faib. 

l. 

’T  is  the  middle  watch  of  a Summer’s  night — 
The  earth  is  dark,  but  the  heavens  are  bright ; 
Nought  is  seen  in  the  vault  on  high 
But  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  cloud- 
less sky, 

And  the  flood  which  rolls  its  milky  hue, 

A river  of  light  on  the  welkin  blue. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cronest ; 

She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 
And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 
In  a silver  cone  on  the  wave  below ; 

His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 

By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 
And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark 
Glimmers  and  dies  the  fire-fly’s  spark — 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest’s 
rack. 

h. 

The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 

A burnished  length  of  wavy  beam 
In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below ; 

The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still ; 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid ; 

And  nought  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket’s  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 
Of  the  gauze- winged  katy-did ; 

And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whip-poor-will, 
Who  moans  unseen,  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  Morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 

And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

m. 

’T  is  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell : 

The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well ; 

He  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain-oak, 

And  he  has  awakened  the  sentry  elve 
Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 


53? 


To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry ; 

Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell — 
(’Twas  made  of  the  white  snail’s  pearly 
shell—) 

“ Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ! 

Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way ! 

’T  is  the  dawn  of  the  fairy-day.” 

IV. 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 

They  creep  from  the  mullen’s  velvet  screen ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 
Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb  ham- 
mocks high, 

And  rocked  about  in  the  evening  breeze  ; 

Some  from  the  hum-bird’s  downy  nest — 
They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 
And,  pillowed  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow 
breast, 

Had  slumbered  there  till  the  charmed  hour ; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid ; 

And  some  had  opened  the  four-o’clock, 
And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade, 
Above — below — on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  arrayed 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  pride  ! 

v. 

They  come  not  now  to  print  the  lea, 

In  freak  and  dance  around  the  tree, 

Or  at  the  mushroom  board  to  sup, 

And  drink  the  dew  from  the  buttercup  ; — 

A scene  of  sorrow  waits  them  now,  . 

For  an  ouphe  has  broken  his  vestal  vow ; 

He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 

And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade ; 

He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 

And  sunned  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 

Fanned  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 
Played  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 

And,  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 

Forgot  the  lily-king’s  behest. 

For  this  the  shadowy  tribes  of  air 
To  the  elfin  court  must  haste  away : — 

And  now  they  stand  expectant  there, 

To  hear  the  doom  of  the  culprit  fay. 


VI. 

The  throne  was  reared  upon  the  grass, 

Of  spice-wood  and  of  sassafras ; 

On  pillars  of  mottled  tortoise-shell 
Hung  the  burnished  canopy — 

And  o’er  it  gorgeous  curtains  fell 
Of  the  tulip’s  crimson  drapery. 

The  monarch  sat  on  his  judgment-seat, 

On  his  brow  the  crown  imperial  shone, 

The  prisoner  fay  was  at  his  feet, 

And  his  peers  were  ranged  around  the  | 
throne. 

He  waved  his  sceptre  in  the  air, 

He  looked  around  and  calmly  spoke  ; 

His  brow  was  grave  and  his  eye  severe, 

But  his  voice  in  a softened  accent  broke : 

I 

VII. 

“ Fairy ! Fairy ! list  and  mark : 

Thou  hast  broke  thine  elfin  chain  ; 

Thy  flame -wood  lamp  is  quenched  and 
dark, 

And  thy  wings  are  dyed  with  a deadly 
stain — 

Thou  hast  sullied  thine  elfin  purity 
In  the  glance  of  a mortal  maiden’s  eye ; 

Thou  hast  scorned  our  dread  decree, 

And  thou  shouldst  pay  the  forfeit  high. 

But  well  I know  her  sinless  mind 
Is  pure  as  the  angel  forms  above, 

Gentle  and  meek,  and  chaste  and  kind, 

Such  as  a spirit  well  might  love ; 

Fairy ! had  she  spot  or  taint, 

Bitter  had  been  thy  punishment : 

Tied  to  the  hornet’s  sliardy  wings ; 

Tossed  on  the  pricks  of  nettles’  stings ; 

Or  seven  long  ages  doomed  to  dwell 
With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut-shell ; 

Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 
Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede ; 

Or  bound  in  a cobweb  dungeon  dim, 

Your  jailer  a spider,  huge  and  grim, 

Amid  the  carrion  bodies  to  lie 
Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  murdered 
fly: 

These  it  had  been  your  lot  to  bear, 

Had  a stain  been  found  on  the  earthly  fair. 

How  list,  and  mark  our  mild  decree — 

I Fairy,  this  your  doom  must  be : 


638 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


yin. 

“ Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand 
Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land ; 

Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 
Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moon- 
shine, 

Then  dart  the  glistening  arch  below, 

And  catch  a drop  from  his  silver  bow. 

The  water-sprites  will  wield  their  arms 
And  dash  around,  with  roar  and  rave, 

And  vain  are  the  woodland  spirits’  charms ; 

They  are  the  imps  that  rule  the  wave. 

Yet  trust  thee  in  thy  single  might : 

If  thy  heart  be  pure  and  thy  spirit  right, 
Thou  shalt  win  the  warlock  fight. 


He  has  leaped  the  bog,  he  has  pierced  the 
brier, 

He  has  swum  the  brook,  and  waded  the  mire, 
Till  his  spirits  sank,  and  his  limbs  grew  weak. 
And  the  red  waxed  fainter  in  his  cheek. 

He  had  fallen  to  the  ground  outright, 

For  rugged  and  dim  was  his  onward  track, 
But  there  came  a spotted  toad  in  sight, 

And  he  laughed  as  he  jumped  upon  her 
back; 

He  bridled  her  mouth  with  a silkweed  twist, 
He  lashed  her  sides  with  an  osier  thong  • 
And  now,  through  evening’s  dewy  mist, 

With  leap  and  spring  they  bound  along, 
Till  the  mountain’s  magic  verge  is  past, 

And  the  beach  of  sand  is  reached  at  last. 


IX. 

“ If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  washed  away ; 
But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye : 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quenched  and  dark, 
Thou  must  reillume  its  spark. 

Mount  thy  steed  and  spur  him  high 
To  the  heaven’s  blue  canopy ; 

And  when  thou  seest  a shooting  star, 

Follow  it  fast,  and  follow  it  far — 

The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 
Shall  light  the  elfin  lamp  again. 

Thou  hast  heard  our  sentence,  fay ; 

Hence ! to  the  water-side,  away ! ” 


XI. 

Soft  and  pale  is  the  moony  beam, 

Moveless  still  the  glassy  stream ; 

The  wave  is  clear,  the  beach  is  bright 
With  snowy  shells  and  sparkling  stones ; 
The  shore-surge  comes  in  ripples  light, 

In  murmurings  faint  and  distant  moans ; 
And  ever  afar  in  the  silence  deep 
Is  heard  the  splash  of  the  sturgeon’s  leap, 
And  the  bend  of  his  graceful  bow  is  seen — 
A glittering  arch  of  silver  sheen, 

Spanning  the  wave  of  burnished  blue, 

And  dripping  with  gems  of  the  river-dew. 

XII. 


x. 


The  goblin  marked  his  monarch  well ; 

He  spake  not,  but  he  bowed  him  low, 

Then  plucked  a crimson  colen-bell, 

And  turned  him  round  in  act  to  go. 

The  way  is  long,  he  cannot  fly, 

His  soiled  wing  has  lost  its  power, 

And  he  winds  adown  the  mountain  high, 

For  many  a sore  and  weary  hour. 

Through  dreary  beds  of  tangled  fern, 
Through  groves  of  nightshade  dark  and  dern, 
Over  the  grass  and  through  the  brake, 

Where  toils  the  ant  and  sleeps  the  snake  ; 

Now  o’er  the  violet’s  azure  flush 
He  skips  along  in  lightsome  mood ; 

And  now  he  thrids  the  bramble-bush, 

Till  its  points  are  dyed  in  fairy  blood. 


The  elfin  cast  a glance  around, 

As  he  lighted  down  from  his  courser  toad ; 
Then  round  his  breast  his  wings  he  wound, 

And  close  to  the  river’s  brink  he  strode ; 

He  sprang  on  a rock,  he  breathed  a prayer, 
Above  his  head  his  arms  he  threw, 

Then  tossed  a tiny  curve  in  air, 

And  headlong  plunged  in  the  waters  blue. 

XIII. 

Up  sprung  the  spirits  of  the  waves, 

From  the  sea-silk  beds  in  their  coral  caves  ; 

With  snail -plate  armor  snatched  in  haste, 

They  speed  their  way  through  the  liquid 
waste ; 

Some  are  rapidly  borne  along 

On  the  mailed  shrimp  or  the  prickly  prong ; 

I 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 


539 


Some  on  the  blood-red  leeches  glide, 

Some  on  the  stony  star-fish  ride, 

Some  on  the  back  of  the  lancing  squab, 

Some  on  the  sideling  soldier-crab  ; 

And  some  on  the  jellied  quarl,  that  flings 
At  once  a thousand  streamy  stings ; 

They  cut  the  wave  with  the  living  oar, 

And  hurry  on  to  the  moonlight  shore, 

To  guard  their  realms  and  chase  away 
The  footsteps  of  the  invading  fay. 

XIV. 

Fearlessly  he  skims  along, 

His  hope  is  high,  and  his  limbs  are  strong; 
He  spreads  his  arms  like  the  swallow’s  wing, 
And  throws  his  feet  with  a frog-like  fling ; 
His  locks  of  gold  on  the  waters  shine, 

At  his  breast  the  tiny  foam-bees  rise, 

His  back  gleams  bright  above  the  brine, 

And  the  wake-line  foam  behind  him  lies. 
But  the  water-sprites  are  gathering  near 
To  check  his  course  along  the  tide  ; 

Their  warriors  come  in  swift  career 
And  hem  him  round  on  every  side ; 

On  his  thigh  the  leech  has  fixed  his  hold, 

The  quarl’s  long  arms  are  round  him  rolled, 
The  prickly  prong  has  pierced  his  skin, 

And  the  squab  has  thrown  his  javelin ; 

The  gritty  star  has  rubbed  him  raw, 

And  the  crab  has  struck  with  his  giant  claw ; 
He  howls  with  rage,  and  he  shrieks  with  pain; 
He  strikes  around,  but  his  blows  are  vain ; 
Hopeless  is  the  unequal  fight, 

Fairy ! naught  is  left  but  flight. 

xv. 

He  turned  him  round,  and  fled  amain 
With  hurry  and  dash  to  the  beach  again ; 

He  twisted  over  from  side  to  side, 

And  laid  his  cheek  to  the  cleaving  tide ; 

The  strokes  of  his  plunging  arms  are  fleet, 
And  with  all  his  might  he  flings  his  feet, 

But  the  water-sprites  are  round  him  still, 

To  cross  his  path  and  work  him  ill. 

They  bade  the  wave  before  him  rise ; 

They  flung  the  sea-fire  in  his  eyes ; 

And  they  stunned  his  ears  with  the  scallop- 
stroke, 

With  the  porpoise  heave  and  the  drum-fish 
croak. 


0 ! but  a weary  wight  was  he 
When  he  reached  the  foot  of  the  dogwood 
tree. 

— Gashed  and  wounded,  and  stiff  and  sore, 
He  laid  him  down  on  the  sandy  shore ; 

He  blessed  the  force  of  the  charmed  line, 
And  he  banned  the  water-goblin’s  spite, 
For  he  saw  around  in  the  sweet  moonshine 
Their  little  wee  faces  above  the  brine, 

Giggling  and  laughing  with  all  their  might 
At  the  piteous  hap  of  the  fairy  wight. 

XVI. 

Soon  he  gathered  the  balsam  dew 
From  the  sorrel-leaf  and  the  henbane  bud ; 
Over  each  wound  the  balm  he  drew, 

And  with  cobweb  lint  he  stanched  the 
blood. 

The  mild  west  wind  was  soft  and  low, 

It  cooled  the  heat  of  his  burning  brow; 

And  he  felt  new  life  in  his  sinews  shoot, 

As  he  drank  the  juice  of  the  calamus  root ; 
And  now  he  treads  the  fatal  shore, 

As  fresh  and  vigorous  as  before. 

XVII. 

Wrapped  in  musing  stands  the  sprite  : 

’T  is  the  middle  wane  of  night ; 

His  task  is  hard,  his  way  is  far, 

But  he  must  do  his  errand  right 
Ere  dawning  mounts  her  beamy  car, 

A nd  rolls  her  chariot  wheels  of  light ; 

And  vain  are  the  spells  of  fairy-land — 

He  must  work  with  a human  hand. 

XVIII. 

He  cast  a saddened  look  around ; 

But  he  felt  new  joy  his  bosom  swell, 

When,  glittering  on  the  shadowed  ground, 

He  saw  a purple  muscle-shell ; 

Thither  he  ran,  and  he  bent  him  low, 

He  heaved  at  the  stern  and  he  heaved  at  the 
bow, 

And  he  pushed  her  over  the  yielding  sand, 
Till  he  came  to  the  verge  of  the  haunted  land. 
She  was  as  lovely  a pleasure-boat 
As  ever  fairy  had  paddled  in, 

For  she  glowed  with  purple  paint  without, 
And  shone  with  silvery  pearl  within  ; 


540 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


A sculler’s  notch  in  the  stern  he  made, 

An  oar  he  shaped  of  the  bootle  blade ; 

Then  sprung  to  his  seat  with  a lightsome  leap? 
And  launched  afar  on  the  calm,  blue  deep. 

XIX. 

The  imps  of  the  river  yell  and  rave ; 

They  had  no  power  above  the  wave ; 

But  they  heaved  the  billow  before  the  prow, 
And  they  dashed  the  surge  against  her  side, 
And  they  struck  her  keel  with  jerk  and  blow, 
Till  the  gunwale  bent  to  the  rocking  tide. 
She  whimpled  about  to  the  pale  moonbeam, 
Like  a feather  that  floats  on  a wind-tossed 
stream ; 

And  momently  athwart  her  track 
The  quarl  upreared  his  island  back, 

And  the  fluttering  scallop  behind  would  float, 

J And  patter  the  water  about  the  boat ; 

I But  he  bailed  her  out  with  his  colen-bell, 

! And  he  kept  her  trimmed  with  a wary 
tread, 

While  on  every  side  like  lightning  fell 
The  heavy  strokes  of  his  bootle-blade. 

j 

xx. 

I Onward  still  he  held  his  way, 
j Till  he  came  where  the  column  of  moonshine 
lay, 

And  saw  beneath  the  surface  dim 

The  brown-backed  sturgeon  slowly  swim  ; 

Around  him  were  the  goblin  train — 

! But  he  sculled  with  all  his  might  and  main, 

' And  followed  wherever  the  sturgeon  led, 

Till  he  saw  him  upward  point  his  head ; 

Then  he  dropped  his  paddle-blade, 

And  held  his  colen-goblet  up 
To  catch  the  drop  in  its  crimson  cup. 

XXI. 

With  sweeping  tail  and  quivering  fin 
Through  the  wave  the  sturgeon  flew, 

And,  like  the  heaven-shot  javelin, 

He  sprung  above  the  waters  blue. 

Instant  as  the  star-fall  light, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  deep  again, 

But  he  left  an  arch  of  silver  bright, 

The  rainbow  of  the  moony  main. 

Tt  was  a strange  and  lovely  sight 
To  see  the  puny  goblin  there ; 


He  seemed  an  angel  form  of  light, 

With  azure  wing  and  sunny  hair, 

Throned  on  a cloud  of  purple  fair, 

Circled  with  blue  and  edged  with  white, 
And  sitting  at  the  fall  of  even 
Beneath  the  bow  of  summer  heaven. 

XXII. 

A moment,  and  its  lustre  fell ; 

But  ere  it  met  the  billow  blue, 

He  caught  within  his  crimson  bell 
A droplet  of  its  sparkling  dew — 

Joy  to  thee,  fay!  thy  task  is  done, 

Thy  wings  are  pure,  for  the  gem  is  won — 
Cheerly  ply  thy  dripping  oar, 

And  haste  away  to  the  elfin  shore. 

xxni. 

He  turns,  and,  lo ! on  either  side 
The  ripples  on  his  path  divide  ; 

And  the  track  o’er  which,  his  boat  must  pas* 
Is  smooth  as  a sheet  of  polished  glass. 
Around,  their  limbs  the  sea-nymphs  lave, 
With  snowy  arms  half-swelling  out, 

While  on  the  glossed  and  gleamy  wave 
Their  sea-green  ringlets  loosely  float ; 

They  swim  around  with  smile  and  song ; 

They  press  the  bark  with  pearly  hand, 
And  gently  urge  her  course  along, 

Toward  the  beach  of  speckled  sand ; 

And,  as  he  lightly  leaped  to  land, 

They  bade  adieu  with  nod  and  bow ; 

Then  gayly  kissed  each  little  hand, 

And  dropped  in  the  crystal  deep  below. 

XXIV. 

A moment  stayed  the  fairy  there  ; 

He  kissed  the  beach  and  breathed  a prayer ; 
Then  spread  his  wings  of  gilded  blue, 

And  on  to  the  elfin  court  he  flew ; 

As  ever  ye  saw  a bubble  rise, 

And  shine  with  a thousand  changing  dyes, 
Till,  lessening  far,  through  ether  driven, 

It  mingles  with  the  hues  of  heaven ; 

As,  at  the  glimpse  of  morning  pale, 

The  lance-fly  spreads  his  silken  sail, 

And  gleams  with  blendings  soft  and  bright, 
Till  lost  in  the  shades  of  fading  night : 

So  rose  from  earth  the  lovely  fay — 

So  vanished,  far  in  heaven  away ! 

* * * * * 


THE  CULPKIT  FAY. 


541 


Up,  fairy ! quit  thy  chick-weed  bower, 

The  cricket  has  called  the  second  hour ; 
Twice  again,  and  the  lark  will  rise 
To  kiss  the  streaking  of  the  skies — 

Up ! thy  charmed  armor  don, 

Thou  ’It  need  it  ere  the  night  he  gone. 

xxv. 

He  put  his  acorn  helmet  on ; 

It  was  plumed  of  the  silk  of  the  thistle-down; 
The  corslet  plate  that  guarded  his  breast 
Was  once  the  wild  bee’s  golden  vest; 

His  cloak,  of  a thousand  mingled  dyes, 

Was  formed  of  the  wings  of  butterflies; 

His  shield  was  the  shell  of  a lady-bug  queen, 
Studs  of  gold  on  a ground  of  green ; 

And  the  quivering  lance  which  he  brandished 
bright, 

Was  the  sting  of  a wasp  he  had  slain  in  fight. 
Swift  he  bestrode  his  fire-fly  steed ; 

He  bared  his  blade  of  the  bent-grass  blue ; 
He  drove  his  spurs  of  the  cockle-seed, 

And  away  like  a glance  of  thought  he  flew, 
To  skim  the  heavens,  and  follow  far 
The  fiery  trail  of  the  rocket-star. 

XXVI. 

The  moth-fly,  as  he  shot  in  air, 

Crept  under  the  leaf,  and  hid  her  there ; 

The  katy-did  forgot  its  lay, 

The  prowling  gnat  fled  fast  away, 

The  fell  mosquito  checked  his  drone 
And  folded  his  wings  till  the  fay  was  gone, 
And  the  wily  beetle  dropped  his  head, 

And  fell  on  the  ground  as  if  he  were  dead ; 
They  crouched  them  close  in  the  darksome 
shade, ' 

They  quaked  all  o’er  with  awe  and  fear, 
For  they  had  felt  the  blue-bent  blade, 

And  writhed  at  the  prick  of  the  elfin  spear; 
Many  a time,  on  a summer’s  night, 

When  the  sky  was  clear,  and  the  moon  was 
bright, 

They  had  been  roused  from  the  haunted 
ground 

By  the  yelp  and  bay  of  the  fairy  hound ; 

They  had  heard  the  tiny  bugle-horn, 

They  had  heard  the  twang  of  the  maize-silk 
string, 

When  the  vine- twig  bows  were  tightly 
drawn, 


And  the  needle-shaft  through  air  was 
borne, 

Feathered  with  down  of  the  hum-bird’s 
wing. 

And  now  they  deemed  the  courier  ouphe, 
Some  hunter-sprite  of  the  elfiii  ground ; 
And  they  watched  till  they  saw  him  mount 
the  roof 

That  canopies  the  world  around ; 

Then  glad  they  left  their  covert  lair, 

And  freaked  about  in  the  midnight  air. 

XXVII. 

Up  to  the  vaulted  firmament 
His  path  the  fire-fly  courser  bent, 

And  at  every  gallop  on  the  wind, 

He  flung  a glittering  spark  behind ; 

He  flies  like  a feather  in  the  blast 
Till  the  first  light  cloud  in  heaven  is  past. 
But  the  shapes  of  air  have  begun  their 
work, 

And  a drizzly  mist  is  round  him  cast ; 

He  cannot  see  through  the  mantle  murk ; 
He  shivers  with  cold,  but  he  urges  fast ; 
Through  storm  and  darkness,  sleet  and 
shade, 

He  lashes  his  steed,  and  spurs  amain — 

For  shadowy  hands  have  twitched  the  rem, 
And  flame-shot  tongues  around  him  played, 
And  near  him  many  a fiendish  eye 
Glared  with  a fell  malignity, 

And  yells  of  rage,  and  shrieks  of  fear, 

Came  screaming  on  his  startled  ear. 

XXVIII. 

His  wings  are  wet  around  his  breast, 

The  plume  hangs  dripping  from  his  crest, 

His  eyes  are  blurred  with  the  lightning’s 
glare, 

And  his  ears  are  stunned  with  the  thunder’s 
blare ; 

But  he  gave  a shout,  and  his  blade  he  drew, 
lie  thrust  before  and  he  struck  behind, 

Till  he  pierced  their  cloudy  bodies  through, 
And  gashed  their  shadowy  limbs  of  wind ; 
Howling  the  misty  spectres  flew, 

They  rend  the  air  with  frightful  cries; 

For  he  has  gained  the  welkin  blue, 

And  the  land  of  clouds  beneath  him  lies. 


542 


POEMS.  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


. XXIX. 

Up  to  the  cope  careering  swift, 

In  breathless  motion  fast, 

Fleet  as  the  swallow  cuts  the  drift, 

Or  the  sea-roc  rides  the  blast, 

The  sapphire  sheet  of  eve  is  shot, 

The  sphered  moon  is  past, 

The  earth  but  seems  a tiny  blot 
On  a sheet  of  azure  cast. 

O ! it  was  sweet,  in  the  clear  moonlight, 

To  tread  the  starry  plain  of  even ! 

To  meet  the  thousand  eyes  of  night, 

And  feel  the  cooling  breath  of  heaven ! 

But  the  elfin  made  no  stop  or  stay 

Till  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  milky-way, 

Then  he  checked  his  courser’s  foot, 

And  watched  for  the  glimpse  of  the  planet- 
shoot. 

XXX. 

Sudden  along  the  snowy  tide 
That  swelled  to  meet  their  footsteps’  fall, 
The  sylphs  of  heaven  were  seen  to  glide, 
Attired  in  sunset’s  crimson  pall ; 

Around  the  fay  they  weave  the  dance, 

They  skip  before  him  on  the  plain, 

And  one  has  taken  his  wasp-sting  lance, 

And  one  upholds  his  bridle-rein ; 

With  warblings  wild  they  lead  him  on 
To  where,  through  clouds  of  amber  seen, 
Studded  with  stars,  resplendent  shone 
The  palace  of  the  sylphid  queen. 

Its  spiral  columns,  gleaming  bright, 

Were  streamers  of  the  northern  light; 

Its  curtain’s  light  and  lovely  flush 
Was  of  the  morning’s  rosy  blush; 

And  the  ceiling  fair  that  rose  ahoon, 

The  white  and  feathery  fleece  of  noon. 

XXXI. 

But,  0 ! how  fair  the  shape  that  lay 
Beneath  a rainbow  bending  bright ; 

She  seemed  to  the  entranced  fay 
The  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light ; 

Her  mantle  was  the  purple  rolled 
At  twilight  in  the  west  afar ; 

’T  was  tied  with  threads  of  dawning  gold, 
And  buttoned  with  a sparkling  star. 

Her  face  was  like  the  lily  roon 
That  veils  the  vestal  planet’s  hue ; 

Her  eyes,  two  beamlets  from  the  moon, 

Set  floating  in  the  welkin  blue. 


Her  hair  is  like  the  sunny  beam, 

And  the  diamond  gems  which  round  it  gleam 

Are  the  pure  drops  of  dewy  even 

That  ne’er  have  left  their  native  heaven. 

XXXII. 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  wondering  sprite, 
And  they  leaped  with  smiles;  for  well  I 
ween 

Never  before  in  the  bowers  of  light 
Had  the  form  of  an  earthly  fay  been  seen. 
Long  she  looked  in  his  tiny  face ; 

Long  with  his  butterfly  cloak  she  played ; 
She  smoothed  his  wings  of  azure  lace, 

And  handled  the  tassel  of  his  blade ; 

And  as  he  told,  in  accents  low, 

The  story  of  his  love  and  wo, 

She  felt  new  pains  in  her  bosom  rise, 

And  the  tear-drop  started  in  her  eyes. 

And  “ O,  sweet  spirit  of  earth,”  she  cried, 

“ Beturn  no  more  to  your  woodland  height, 
But  ever  here  with  me  abide 
In  the  land  of  everlasting  light ! 

Within  the  fleecy  drift  we  ’ll  lie, 

We  ’ll  hang  upon  the  rainbow’s  rim ; 

And  all  the  jewels  of  the  sky 

Around  thy  brow  shall  brightly  beam ! 

And  thou  shalt  bathe  thee  in  the  stream 
That  rolls  its  whitening  foam  aboon, 

And  ride  upon  the  lightning’s  gleam, 

And  dance  upon  the  orbed  moon ! 

We  ’ll  sit  within  the  Pleiad  ring, 

We  ’ll  rest  on  Orion’s  starry  belt, 

And  I will  bid  my  sylphs  to  sing 
The  song  that  makes  the  dew-mist  melt , 
Their  harps  are  of  the  umber  shade 
That  hides  the  blush  of  waking  day, 

And  every  gleamy  string  is  made 

Of  silvery  moonshine’s  lengthened  ray ; 
And  thou  shalt  pillow  on  my  breast, 

While  heavenly  breathings  float  around, 
And,  with  the  sylphs  of  ether  blest, 

Forget  the  joys  of  fairy  ground.” 

XXXIII. 

She  was  lovely  and  fair  to  see 
And  the  elfin’s  heart  beat  fitfully ; 

But  lovelier  far,  and  still  more  fair, 

The  earthly  form  imprinted  there ; 

Naught  he  saw  in  the  heavens  above 
Was  half  so  dear  as  his  mortal  love, 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 


543 


For  he  thought  upon  her  looks  so  meek, 

And  he  thought  of  the  light  flush  on  her 
cheek ; 

Never  again  might  he  bask  and  lie 
On  that  sweet  cheek  and  moonlight  eye ; 

But  in  his  dreams  her  form  to  see, 

To  clasp  her  in  his  re  very, 

To  think  upon  his  virgin  bride, 

Was  worth  all  heaven,  and  earth  beside. 

xxxiv. 

“Lady,”  he  cried,  “I  have  sworn  to-night, 
On  the  word  of  a fairy-knight, 

To  do  my  sentence-task  aright ; 

My  honor  scarce  is  free  from  stain — 

I may  not  soil  its  snows  again ; 

Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  wo, 

Its  mandate  must  be  answered  now.” 

Her  bosom  heaved  with  many  a sigh, 

The  tear  was  in  her  drooping  eye ; 

But  she  led  him  to  the  palace  gate, 

And  called  the  sylphs  who  hovered  there, 
And  bade  them  fly  and  bring  him  straight, 

Of  clouds  condensed,  a sable  car. 

With  charm  and  spell  she  blessed  it  there, 
From  all  the  fiends  of  upper  air ; 

Then  round  him  cast  the  shadowy  shroud, 
And  tied  his  steed  behind  the  cloud ; 

And  pressed  his  hand  as  she  bade  him  fly 
Far  to  the  verge  of  the  northern  sky, 

For  by  its  wane  and  wavering  light 
There  was  a star  would  fall  to-night. 

xxxv. 

Borne  afar  on  the  wings  of  the  blast, 
Northward  away,  he  speeds  him  fast, 

And  his  courser  follows  the  cloudy  wain 
Till  the  hoof-strokes  fall  like  pattering  rain. 
The  clouds  roll  backward  as  he  flies, 

Each  flickering  star  behind  him  lies, 

And  he  has  reached  the  northern  plain, 

And  backed  his  fire-fly  steed  again, 

Ready  to  follow  in  its  flight 
The  streaming  of  the  rocket-light. 

xxxvi. 

The  star  is  yet  in  the  vault  of  heaven, 

But  it  rocks  in  the  summer  gale ; 

And  now  ’t  is  fitful  and  uneven, 

And  now ’t  is  deadly  pale ; 


And  now ’t  is  wrapped  in  sulphur-smoke, 
And  quenched  is  its  rayless  beam ; 

And  now  with  a rattling  thunder-stroke 
It  bursts  in  flash  and  flame. 

As  swift  as  the  glance  of  the  arrowy  lance 
That  the  storm-spirit  flings  from  high, 

The  star-shot  flew  o’er  the  welkin  blue, 

As  it  fell  from  the  sheeted  sky. 

As  swift  as  the  wind  in  its  train  behind 
The  elfin  gallops  along  : 

The  fiends  of  the  clouds  are  bellowing  loud, 
But  the  sylph  id  charm  is  strong  ; 

He  gallops  unhurt  in  the  shower  of  fire, 
While  the  cloud-fiends  fly  from  the  blaze ; 

He  watches  each  flake  till  its  sparks  expire, 
And  rides  in  the  light  of  its  rays. 

But  he  drove  his  steed  to  the  lightning’s 
speed, 

And  caught  a glimmering  spark  ; 

Then  wheeled  around  to  the  fairy  ground, 
And  sped  through  the  midnight  dark. 

* * * * * 

Ouphe  and  goblin ! imp  and  sprite ! 

Elf  of  eve ! and  starry  fay ! 

Ye  that  love  the  moon’s  soft  light, 

Hither — hither  wend  your  way ; 

Twine  ye  in  a jocund  ring, 

Sing  and  trip  it  merrily, 

Hand  to  hand,  and  wing  to  wing, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

Hail  the  wanderer  again 
With  dance  and  song,  and  lute  and  lyre; 

Pure  his  wing  and  strong  his  chain, 

And  doubly  bright  his  fairy  fire. 

Twine  ye  in  an  airy  round, 

Brush  the  dew  and  print  the  lea  ; 

Skip  and  gambol,  hop  and  bound, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 

The  beetle  guards  our  holy  ground, 

He  flies  about  the  haunted  place, 

And  if  mortal  there  be  found, 

He  hums  in  his  ears  and  flaps  his  face ; 

The  leaf-harp  sounds  our  roundelay, 

The  owlet’s  eyes  our  lanterns  be ; 

Thus  we  sing,  and  dance,  and  play, 

Round  the  wild  witch-hazel  tree. 


544  POEMS  OF  THE 

IMAGINATION. 

But,  hark ! from  tower  on  tree-top  high, 

They  took  her  lightly  back, 

The  sentry-elf  his  call  has  made ; 

Between  the  night  and  morrow ; 

A streak  is  in  the  eastern  sky, 

They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

Shapes  of  moonlight ! flit  and  fade ! 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 

The  hill-tops  gleam  in  Morning’s  spring, 

They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

The  sky-lark  shakes  his  dappled  wing, 

Deep  within  the  lakes, 

The  day-glimpse  glimmers  on  the  lawn, 

On  a bed  of  flag-leaves, 

The  cock  has  crowed,  and  the  fays  are  gone. 

Watching  till  she  wakes. 

Joseph  Eodman  Drake. 

THE  FAIBIES. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 
Through  the  mosses  hare, 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees 
For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

To  dig  one  up  in  spite, 

He  shall  find  the  thornies  set 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 

In  his  bed  at  night. 

We  daren’t  go  a hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 

Trooping  all  together ; 

We  daren’t  go  a hunting 

Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

For  fear  of  little  men ; 

And  white  owl’s  feather ! 

Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Trooping  all  together ; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

Some  make  their  home — 

And  white  owl’s  feather ! 

They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

William  Allingham. 

Of  yellow  tide-foam ; 

Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black  mountain-lake, 

With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs, 

THE  FAIRIES’  FAREWELL. 

All  night  awake. 

High  on  the  hill-top 

Fakewell  rewards  and  Fairies ! 
Good  housewives  now  may  say ; 

The  old  king  sits ; 

For  now  foule  sluts  in  dairies 

He  is  now  so  old  and  gray 

Doe  fare  as  well  as  they ; 

He ’s  nigh  lost  his  wits. 

And  though  they  sweepe  their  hearths  no 

With  a bridge  of  white  mist 

less 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 

Than  mayds  were  wont  to  doe, 

On  his  stately  journeys 

Yet  who  of  late  for  cleaneliness 

From  Slieveleague  to  Bosses ; 

Finds  sixe-pence  in  her  shoe  ? 

Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold,  starry  nights^ 

Lament,  lament,  old  Abbeys, 

To  sup  with  the  queen 

The  fairies’  lost  command ! 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  did  but  change  priests’  babies, 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

But  some  have  changed  your  land ; 
And  all  your  children,  stoln  from  thence, 

For  seven  years  long; 

Are  now  growne  Puritanes, 

When  she  came  down  again 

Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since, 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 

For  love  of  your  demaines. 

BIRTH  AND  DEATH  OF  FANCY. 


541 


At  morning  and  at  evening  both 
You  merry  were  and  glad  ; 

So  little  care  of  sleepe  and  sloth 
These  prettie  ladies  had. 

When  Tom  came  home  from  labor, 

Or  Oiss  to  milking  rose, 

Then  merrily  went  their  tabour, 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness : those  rings  and  ronndelayes 
Of  theirs,  which  yet  remaine, 

Were  footed  in  Queen  Marie’s  dayes 
On  many  a grassy  playne. 

But  since  of  late  Elizabeth, 

And  later  James,  came  in, 

They  never  danced  on  any  heath 
As  when  the  time  hath  bin. 

By  which  wee  note  the  fairies 
Were  of  the  old  profession  ; 

Their  songs  were  Ave-Maries , 

Their  dances  were  procession. 

But,  now,  alas ! they  all  are  dead, 

Or  gone  beyond  the  seas, 

Or  farther  for  religion  fled  ; 

Or  else  they  take  their  ease. 

A tell-tale  in  their  company 
They  never  could  endure ; 

And  whoso  kept  not  secretly 
Their  mirth,  was  punished  sure ; 

It  was  a just  and  Christian  deed 
To  pinch  such  blacke  and  blue : 

0 how  the  oommon-welth  doth  need 
Such  justices  as  you ! 

Now  they  have  left  our  quarters, 

A Register  they  have, 

Who  can  preserve  their  charters — 

A man  both  wise  and  grave. 

An  hundred  of  their  merry  pranks, 

By  one  that  I could  name, 

Are  kept  in  store ; con  twenty  thanks 
To  William  for  the  same. 

To  William  Churne  of  Staffordshire 
Give  laud  and  praises  due, 

Who,  every  meale,  can  mend  your  cheare 
With  tales  both  old  and  true ; 

35 


To  William  all  give  audience, 

And  pray  yee  for  his  noddle  ; 

For  all  the  fairies’  evidence 
Were  lost  if  it  were  addle. 

Richard  Corbett. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  VENUS. 

The  ocean  stood  like  crystal.  The  soft  air 
Stirred  not  the  glassy  waves;  but  sweetly 
there 

Had  rocked  itself  to  slumber.  The  blue  sky 
Leaned  silently  above ; and  all  its  high 
And  azure-circled  roof  beneath  the  wave 
Was  imaged  back,  and  seemed  the  deep  to 
pave 

With  its  transparent  beauty.  While,  between 
The  waves  and  sky,  a few  white  clouds  were 
seen 

Floating  upon  their  wings  of  feathery  gold, 
As  if  they  knew  some  charm  the  universe  en- 
rolled. 

A holy  stillness  came ; while,  in  the  ray 
Of  heaven’s  soft  light,  a delicate  foam-wreath 
lay 

Like  silver  on  the  sea.  Look!  look!  why 
shine 

Those  floating  bubbles  with  such  light  divine  ? 
They  break ; and  from  their  mist  a lily  form 
Rises  from  out  the  wave,  in  beauty  warm. 
The  wave  is  by  the  blue- veined  feet  scarce 
prest ; 

Her  silky  ringlets  float  about  her  breast, 
Veiling  its  fairy  loveliness ; while  her  eye 
Is  soft  and  deep  as  the  blue  heaven  is  high. 
The  Beautiful  is  born  ; and  sea  and  earth 
May  well  revere  the  hour  of  that  mysterious 
birth. 

Anonymous. 


SONG. 

The  fairy  beam  upon  you, 
The  stars  to  glister  on  you ; 
A moon  of  light 
In  the  noon  of  night 


646 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Till  the  fire- drake  hath  o’ergone  you ! 
The  wheel  of  fortune  guide  you, 

The  boy  with  the  bow  beside  you  ; 

Run  aye  in  the  way 
Till  the  bird  of  day, 

And  the  luckier  lot  betide  you ! 

Ben  Jonbon. 


ARIEL’S  SONGS. 

i. 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands ; 

Court’sied  when  you  have,  and  kissed, 

(The  wild  waves  whist !) 

Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 

And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear. 

Hark,  hark ! 

Bowgh , wowgh. 

The  watch-dogs  bark — 

Bowgh , wowgh. 

Hark,  hark ! I hear 

The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 

Cry  Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

ii. 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes ; 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Ding-dong. 

Hark ! now  I hear  them — ding,  dong,  bell ! 

m. 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I ; 

In  a cowslip’s  bell  I lie ; 

There  I couch  when  owls  do  cry ; 

On  the  bat’s  back  I do  fly 
After  Summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

Siiakebpeabe. 


SONG. 

Hear,  sweet  spirit,  hear  the  spell, 

Lest  a blacker  charm  compel ! 

So  shall  the  midnight  breezes  swell 
With  thy  deep,  long,  lingering  knell. 

And  at  evening  evermore, 

In  a chapel  on  the  shore, 

Shall  the  chaunter,  sad  and  saintly, 
Yellow  tapers  burning  faintly, 

Doleful  masses  chaunt  for  thee— 
Miserere  Domine ! 

Hark ! the  cadence  dies  away 
On  the  quiet  moonlight  sea ; 

The  boatman  rest  their  oars  and  say, 
Miserere  Domine ! 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


SIREN’S  SONG. 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines, 

All  beaten  mariners ! 

Here  lie  love’s  undiscovered  mines, 

A prey  to  passengers — 

Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
Which  make  the  phoenix’  urn  and  nest. 

Fear  not  your  ships ; 

Nor  any  to  oppose  you,  save  our  lips ; 

But  come  on  shore, 

Where  no  joy  dies  till  love  hath  gotten  more. 

For  swelling  waves  our  panting  breasts, 
Where  never  storms  arise, 

Exchange ; and  be  awhile  our  guests — 

For  stars,  gaze  on  our  eyes. 

The  compass  Love  shall  hourly  sing ; 

And,  as  he  goes  about  the  ring, 

We  will  not  miss 

To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a kiss. 

William  Browne. 


THE  WATER  FAY. 


THE  LORELEI. 

I know  not  what  it  presages, 

This  heart  with  sadness  fraught : 

’T  is  a tale  of  the  olden  ages, 

That  will  not  from  my  thought. 

The  air  grows  cool,  and  darkles ; 

The  Rhine  flows  calmly  on  ; 

The  mountain  summit  sparkles 
In  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

There  sits,  in  soft  reclining, 

A maiden  wondrous  fair, 

With  golden  raiment  shining, 

And  combing  her  golden  hair. 

With  a comb  of  gold  she  combs  it ; 

And  combing,  low  singeth  she — 

A song  of  a strange,  sweet  sadness, 

A wonderful  melody. 

The  sailor  shudders,  as  o’er  him, 

The  strain  comes  floating  by ; 

He  sees  not  the  clifis  before  him — 

He  only  looks  on  high. 

Ah ! round  him  the  dark  waves,  flinging 
Their  arms,  draw  him  slowly  down — 

And  this,  with  her  wild,  sweet  singing, 
The  Lorelei  has  done. 

Henry  Heine.  (German.) 

Translation  of  Christopher  Peaese  Cranch. 


THE  WATER  LADY. 

i. 

Alas,  that  moon  should  ever  beam 
To  show  what  man  should  never  see ! — 
I saw  a maiden  on  a stream, 

And  fair  was  she ! 

n. 

I staid  awhile,  to  see  her  throw 
Her  tresses  back,  that  all  beset 
The  fair  horizon  of  her  brow 
With  clouds  of  jet. 


54 1 


hi. 

I staid  a little  while  to  view 
Her  cheek,  that  wore,  in  place  of  red, 
The  bloom  of  water — tender  blue, 
Daintily  spread. 

IV 

I staid  to  watch,  a little  space. 

Her  parted  lips,  if  she  would  sing ; 

The  waters  closed  above  her  face 
With  many  a ring. 

v. 

And  still  I staid  a little  more — 

Alas ! she  never  comes  again ! 

I throw  my  flowers  from  the  shore, 
And  watch  in  vain. 

VI. 

I know  my  life  will  fade  away — 

I know  that  I must  vainly  pine ; 

For  I am  made  of  mortal  clay, 

But  she ’s  divine ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  WATER  FAY. 

The  night  comes  stealing  o’er  me, 

And  clouds  are  on  the  sea ; 

While  the  wavelets  rustle  before  me 
With  a mystical  melody. 

A water-maid  rose  singing 
Before  me,  fair  and  pale  ; 

And  snow-white  breasts  were  springing, 
Like  fountains,  ’neath  her  veil. 

She  kissed  me  and  she  pressed  me, 

Till  I wished  her  arms  away  : 

“ Why  hast  thou  so  caressed  me, 

Thou  lovely  Water  Fay  ? ” 

“ O,  thou  need’st  not  alarm  thee, 

That  thus  thy  form  I hold  ; 

For  I only  seek  to  warm  me, 

And  the  night  is  black  and  cold.” 


54:8 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


“The  wind  to  the  waves  is  calling, 

The  moonlight  is  fading  away  ; 

And  tears  down  thy  cheek  are  falling, 
Thou  beautiful  Water  Fay ! ” 

“ The  wind  to  the  waves  is  calling, 

And  the  moonlight  grows  dim  on  the 
rocks ; 

But  no  tears  from  mine  eyes  are  falling, 
’Tis  the  water  which  drips  from  my 
locks.” 

“ The  ocean  is  heaving  and  sobbing, 

The  sea-mews  scream  in  the  spray ; 

And  thy  heart  is  wildly  throbbing, 

Thou  beautiful  Water  Fay ! ” 

“My  heart  is  wildly  swelling, 

And  it  beats  in  burning  truth ; 

For  I love  thee,  past  all  telling — 

Thou  beautiful  mortal  youth.” 

Henry  Heine.  (German.) 

Translation  of  Charles  G.  Leland. 


SONG. 


A Lake  and  a fairy  boat, 

To  sail  in  the  moonlight  clear — 

And  merrily  we  would  float 

From  the  dragons  that  watch  us  here ! 

ii. 

Thy  gown  should  be  snow-white  silk ; 
And  strings  of  orient  pearls, 

Like  gossamers  dipped  in  milk, 

Should  twine  with  thy  raven  curls ! 

in. 

Red  rubies  should  deck  thy  hands, 

And  diamonds  should  be  thy  dower — 
But  fairies  have  broke  their  wands, 
And  wishing  has  lost  its  power ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 

PAET  1. 

Ox  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 

That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky ; 
And  through  the  field  the  road  runs  by 
To  many-towered  Camelot ; 
And  up  and  down  the  people  go, 

Gazing  where  the  lilies  blow 
Round  an  island  there  below — 

The  island  of  Shalott. 

Willows  whiten  ; aspens  quiver ; 

Little  breezes  dusk  and  shiver 
Through  the  wave  that  runs  for  ever 
By  the  island  in  the  river, 

Flowing  down  to  Camelot. 
Four  gray  walls,  and  four  gray  towers, 
Overlook  a space  of  flowers ; 

And  the  silent  isle  imbowers 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

By  the  margin,  willow- veiled, 

Slide  the  heavy  baizes,  trailed 
By  slow  horses  ; and,  unhailed, 

The  shallop  flitteth,  silken-sailed— 

Skimming  down  to  Camelot ; 
But  who  hath  seen  her  wave  her  hand  ? 
Or  at  the  casement  seen  her  stand  ? 

Or  is  she  known  in  all  the  land — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  ? 

Only  reapers,  reaping  early 
In  among  the  bearded  barley, 

Hear  a song  that  echoes  cheerly 
From  the  river,  winding  clearly 

Down  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  by  the  moon  the  reaper  weary, 
Piling  sheaves  in  uplands  airy, 

Listening,  whispers  “ ’T  is  the  fairy 
Lady  of  Shalott.” 

PAET  II. 

There  she  weaves  by  night  and  day 
A magic  web  with  colors  gay. 

She  has  heard  a whisper  say 
A curse  is  on  her  if  she  stay 

To  look  down  to  Camelot. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


54S 


She  knows  not  what  the  curse  may  be ; 
And  so  she  weaveth  steadily, 

And  little  other  care  hath  she — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

And,  moving  through  a mirror  clear 
That  hangs  before  her  all  the  year, 
Shadows  of  the  world  appear. 

There  she  sees  the  highway  near, 

Winding  down  to  Oamelot ; 
There  the  river  eddy  whirls ; 

And  there  the  surly  village- churls, 

And  the  red  cloaks  of  market-girls, 

Pass  onward  from  Shalott. 

Sometimes  a troop  of  damsels  glad, 

An  abbot  on  an  ambling  pad — 

Sometimes  a curly  shepherd-lad, 

Or  long-haired  page,  in  crimson  clad, 

Goes  by  to  towered  Camelot ; 
And  sometimes  through  the  mirror  blue 
The  knights  come  riding,  two  and  two  : 
She  hath  no  loyal  knight  and  true — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

But  in  her  web  she  still  delights 
To  weave  the  mirror’s  magic  sights ; 

For  often,  through  the  silent  nights, 

A funeral,  with  plumes  and  lights 

And  music,  went  to  Camelot ; 
Or,  when  the  moon  was  overhead, 

Came  two  young  lovers  lately  wed ; 

“ I am  half-sick  of  shadows,”  said 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

part  in. 

A bow-shot  from  her  bower-eaves 
He  rode  between  the  barley  sheaves ; 

The  sun  came  dazzling  through  the  leaves, 
And  flamed  upon  the  brazen  greaves 
Of  bold  Sir  Lancelot. 

A red-cross  knight  for  ever  kneeled 
To  a lady  in  his  shield, 

That  sparkled  on  the  yellow  field, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

The  gemmy  bridle  glittered  free, 

Like  to  some  branch  of  stars  we  see 


Hung  in  the  golden  galaxy. 

The  bridle  bells  rang  merrily, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot ; 
And,  from  his  blazoned  baldric  slung, 

A mighty  silver  bugle  hung ; 

And  as  he  rode  his  armor  rung, 

Beside  remote  Shalott. 

All  in  the  blue  unclouded  weather 
Thick-jewelled  shone  the  saddle-leather ; 
The  helmet  and  the  helmet-feather 
Burned  like  one  burning  flame  together, 
As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 

As  often,  through  the  purple  night. 

Below  the  starry  clusters  bright, 

Some  bearded  meteor,  trailing  light, 
Moves  over  still  Shalott. 

His  broad  clear  brow  in  sunlight  glowed ; 
On  burnished  hooves  his  war-horse  trode ; 
From  underneath  his  helmet  flowed 
His  coal-black  curls  as  on  he  rode, 

As  he  rode  down  to  Camelot. 
From  the  bank  and  from  the  river 
He  flashed  into  the  crystal  mirror : 

“ Tirra  lirra,”  by  the  river, 

Sang  Sir  Lancelot. 

She  left  the  web,  she  left  the  loom ; 

She  made  three  paces  through  the  room ; 
She  saw  the  water-lily  bloom ; 

She  saw  the  helmet  and  the  plume ; 

She  looked  down  to  Camelot : 
Out  flew  the  web,  and  floated  wide ; 

The  mirror  cracked  from  side  to  side ; 
“The  curse  is  come  upon  me,”  cried 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

PART  IV. 

In  the  stormy  east-wind  straining, 

The  pale  yellow  woods  were  waning — 

The  broad  stream  in  his  banks  complaining, 
Heavily  the  low  sky  raining 

Over  towered  Camelot ; 

Down  she  came,  and  found  a boat, 

Beneath  a willow  left  afloat ; 

And  round  about  the  prow  she  wrote 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 


650 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


And  down  the  river’s  dim  expanse — 

Like  some  bold  seer  in  a trance, 

Seeing  all  his  own  mischance — 

With  a glassy  countenance 

Did  she  look  to  Oamelot. 

And  at  the  closing  of  the  day 

She  loosed  the  chain,  and  down  she  lay ; 

The  broad  stream  bore  her  far  away — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Lying  robed  in  snowy  white, 

That  loosely  flew  to  left  and  right — 

The  leaves  upon  her  falling  light — 
Through  the  noises  of  the  night 

She  floated  down  to  Camelot ; 
Amd  as  the  boat-head  wound  along, 

The  willowy  hills  and  fields  among, 

They  heard  her  singing  her  last  song — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott — 

Heard  a carol,  mournful,  holy, 

Chanted  loudly,  chanted  lowly — 

Till  her  blood  was  frozen  slowly, 

And  her  eyes  were  darkened  wholly, 
Turned  to  towered  Camelot ; 

For  ere  she  reached,  upon  the  tide, 

The  first  house  by  the  water-side, 

Singing,  in  her  song  she  died — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Under  tower  and  balcony, 

By  garden-wall  and  gallery, 

A gleaming  shape,  she  floated  by — 

A corse  between  the  houses  high — 

Silent,  into  Camelot. 

Out  upon  the  wharfs  they  came, 

Knight  and  burgher,  lord  and  dame  ; 

And  round  the  prow  they  read  her  name — 
The  Lady  of  Shalott. 

Who  is  this  ? and  what  is  here  ? 

And  in  the  royal  palace  near 
Died  the  sound  of  royal  cheer ; 

And  they  crossed  themselves  for  fear — 

All  the  knights  at  Camelot ; 

But  Lancelot  mused  a little  space  : 

He  said,  “ She  has  a lovely  face  ; 

God  in  his  mercy  lend  her  grace — 

The  Lady  of  Shalott.” 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


COMUS,  A MASK. 

THE  PERSONS. 

The  attendant  Spirit,  afterwards  in  the  habit 
of  Thybsib. 

Comits,  with  his  crew. 

The  Lady. 

First  Brother. 

Second  Brother. 

Sabrina,  the  Nymph. 

THE  FIRST  SCENE  DISCOVERS  A WILD  WOOD. 

The  attendant  Spirit  descends  or  enters. 
Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove’s  court 
My  mansion  is,  where  those  immortal  shapes 
Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  insphered 
In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air, 

Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot, 
Which  men  call  Earth,  and,  with  low-thought- 
ed  care 

Confined,  and  pestered  in  this  pinfold  here, 
Strive  to  keep  up  a frail  and  feverish  being, 
Unmindful  of  the  crown  that  virtue  gives, 
After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  ser- 
vants, 

Amongst  the  enthroned  gods  on  sainted  seats. 
Yet  some  there  be  that  by  due  steps  aspire 
To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  golden  key 
That  opes  the  palace  of  eternity. 

To  such  my  errand  is ; and,  but  for  such, 

I would  not  soil  these  pure  ambrosial  weeds 
With  the  rank  vapors  of  this  sin-worn  mould. 
But  to  my  task:  Neptune,  besides  the 

sway 

Of  every  salt  flood,  and  each  ebbing  stream, 
Took  in,  by  lot  ’twixt  high  and  nether  Jove, 
Imperial  rule  of  all  the  sea-girt  isles, 

That  like  to  rich  and  various  gems  inlay 
The  unadorned  bosom  of  the  deep ; 

Which  he,  to  grace  his  tributary  gods, 

By  course  commits  to  several  government, 
And  gives  them  leave  to  wear  their  sapphire 
crowns, 

And  wield  their  little  tridents.  But  this  isle, 
The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main, 

He  quarters  to  his  blue-haired  deities ; 

And  all  this  tract,  that  fronts  the  falling  sun, 
A noble  peer  of  mickle  trust  and  power 
Has  in  his  charge,  with  tempered  awe  to 
guide 

An  old  and  haughty  nation,  proud  in  arms; 


COMUS. 


651 


Where  his  fair  offspring,  nursed  in  princely 
lore, 

Are  coming  to  attend  their  father’s  state, 

And  new-intrusted  sceptre ; hut  their  ■way 
Lies  through  the  perplexed  paths  of  this  drear 
wood, 

The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger. 
And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer  peril, 
But  that,  by  quick  command  from  sovereign 
Jove, 

I was  despatched  for  their  defence  and  guard ; 
And  listen  why — for  I will  tell  you  now 
What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song, 
From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bower. 

Bacchus,  that  first  from  out  the  purple 
grape 

Crushed  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine, 
After  the  Tuscan  mariners  transformed, 
Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  shore  as  the  -winds 
listed, 

On  Circe’s  island  fell.  Who  knows  not  Circe, 
The  daughter  of  the  sun,  whose  charmed  cup 
Whoever  tasted  lost  his  upright  shape, 

And  downward  fell  into  a grovelling  swine  ? 
This  Nymph,  that  gazed  upon  his  clustering 
locks 

With  ivy  berries  wreathed,  and  his  blithe 
youth, 

Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a son 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more 
Whom  therefore  she  brought  up,  and  Comus 
named ; 

Who  ripe,  and  frolic  of  his  full  grown  age, 
Roving  the  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields, 

At  last?  betakes  him  to  this  ominous  wood, 
And,  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades  imbow- 
ered, 

Excels  his  mother  at  her  mighty  art, 

Offering  to  every  weary  traveller 
His  orient  liquor  in  a crystal  glass, 

To  quench  the  drouth  of  Phoebus ; which  as 
they  taste, 

(For  most  do  taste  through  fond  intemp’rate 
thirst) 

Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human  coun- 
tenance, 

Th’  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,  is 
changed 

Into  some  brutish  form,  of  wolf,  or  bear, 

Or  ounce,  or  tiger,  hog  or  bearded  goat — 


All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were; 

And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery, 

Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigurement, 
But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than  be- 
fore; 

And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  forget, 
To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a sensual  sty. 
Therefore,  when  any  favored  of  high  Jove 
Chances  to  pass  through  this  adventurous 
glade, 

Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a glancing  star 
I shoot  from  heav’n,  to  give  him  safe  con- 
voy— 

As  now  I do.  But  first  I must  put  off 
These  my  sky  robes,  spun  out  of  Iris’  woof, 
And  take  the  weeds  and  likeness  of  a swain, 
That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs, 

Who  with  his  soft  pipe,  and  smooth-dittied 
song, 

Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  winds  when  they 
roar, 

And  hush  the  waving  -woods;  nor  of  less 
faith, 

And,  in  this  office  of  his  mountain  watch, 
Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present  aid, 

Of  this  occasion.  But  I hear  the  tread 
Of  hateful  steps ; I must  be  viewless  now. 

Comus  enters , with  a charming  rod  in  one 
hand,  his  glass  in  the  other ; with  him  a 
rout  of  monsters , headed  like  sundry  sorts 
of  wild  beasts — but  otherwise  like  men  and 
women,  their  apparel  glistening  ; they  come 
in  making  a riotous  and  unruly  noise,  with 
torches  in  their  hands. 

Comus.  The  star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold ; 

And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream ; 

And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 

Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  east. 

Meanwhile  welcome  Joy  and  Feast, 

Midnight  Shout  and  Revelry, 

Tipsy  Dance  and  Jollity. 

Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 

Dropping  odors,  dropping  wine. 

Rigor  now  is  gone  to  bed, 


552 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


i 


And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head ; 

Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 

With  their  grave  saws,  in  slumber  lie. 

We  that  are  of  purer  fire 
Imitate  the  starry  quire, 

Who  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres 
Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 
The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny 
drove, 

Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice  move ; 
And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 
Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves. 

By  dimpled  brook,  and  fountain  brim, 

The  wood-nymphs,  decked  with  daisies  trim, 
Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep ; 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  ? 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove ; 

Yenus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 

Come ! let  us  our  rites  begin — 

’T  is  only  daylight  that  makes  us  sin, 

Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne’er  report. 
Hail  Goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 

Dark- veiled  Cotytto  ! t’  whom  the  secret 
flame 

Of  midnight  torches  burns ; mysterious  dame, 
That  ne’er  art  called  but  when  the  dragon 
womb 

Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thickest  gloom, 
And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air ; 

Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  ridest  with  Hecate,  and  be- 
friend 

Us,  thy  vowed  priests,  till  utmost  end 
Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out, 
Ere  the  babbling  eastern  scout, 

The  nice  morn,  on  the  Indian  steep 
From  her  cabined  loophole  peep, 

And  to  the  tell-tale  sun  descry 
Our  concealed  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 
In  a light  fantastic  round ! 

THE  MEASURE. 

Break  off,  break  off!  I feel  the  different  pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds,  within  these  brakes  and 
trees ; 

Our  number  may  affright  some  virgin  sure, 
(For  so  I can  distinguish  by  mine  art), 
Benighted  in  these  woods.  Now  to  my 
charms, 


And  to  my  wily  trains ; I shall  ere  long 
Be  well  stocked,  with  as  fair  a herd  as  grazed 
About  my  mother  Circe.  Thus  I hurl 
My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spungy  air, 

Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear  illusion, 
And  give  it  false  presentments ; lest  the  place 
And  my  quaint  habits  breed  astonishment. 
And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious  flight — 
Which  must  not  be,  for  that’s  against  my 
course. 

I,  under  fair  pretence  of  friendly  ends, 

And  well  placed  words  of  glozing  courtesy, 
Baited  with  reasons  not  unplausible, 

Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man, 

And  hug  him  into  snares.  When  once  her 
eye 

Hath  met  the  virtue  of  this  magic  dust, 

I shall  appear  some  harmless  villager, 

Whom  thrift  keeps  up,  about  his  country  gear. 
But  here  she  comes ; I fairly  step  aside, 

And  hearken,  if  I may,  her  business  here. 


i 


THE  LADY  ENTERS. 


This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true — 
My  best  guide  now ; methought  it  was  the 
sound 

Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment, 

Such  as  the  jocund  flute  or  gamesome  pipe 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose,  unlettered  hinds, 
When  for  their  teeming  flocks,  and  granges 
full, 

In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous 
Pan, 

And  thank  the  gods  amiss.  I should  be 
loath 

To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers ; yet  0 ! where  else 
Shall  I inform  my  unacquainted  feet 
In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 

My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these  pines, 
Stepped,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 

They  left  me,  then,  whep.  the  gray-hooded 
Even, 

Like  a sad  votarist  in  palmer’s  weed, 

Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus’ 
wain. 


COMUS. 


553 


But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not 
hack, 

Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts ; ’t  is  like- 
liest 

They  had  engaged  their  wandering  steps  too 
far; 

And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return, 
Had  stole  them  from  me.  Else,  O thievish 
Night, 

Why  shouldst  thou,  hut  for  some  felonious 
end, 

In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars, 
That  nature  hung  in  heaven,  and  filled  their 
lamps 

With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller  ? 

This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I may  guess, 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  listening  ear; 

Yet  nought  hut  single  darkness  do  I find. 
What  might  this  he  ? A thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory, 

Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows 
dire, 

And  airy  tongues,  that  syllable  men’s  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  hut  not  as- 
tound 

The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a strong-siding  champion,  Conscience. 

0 welcome  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed 

Hope — 

Thou  hovering  angel,  girt  with  golden  wings — 
And  thou,  unblemished  form  of  Chastity ! 

1 see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  he,  the  Supreme  Good,  t’  whom  all 
things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 
Would  send  a glistering  guardian,  if  need 
were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unassailed. 

Was  I deceived,  or  did  a sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night? 

I did  not  err,  there  does  a sable  cloud 
Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 

And  casts  a gleam  over  this  tufted  grove. 

I cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers ; but 
Such  noise  as  I can  make,  to  be  heard  far- 
thest, 

I ’ll  venture,  for  my  new-enlivened  spirits 
Prompt  me ; and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off 


SONG. 

SwEEt  Echo,  sweetest  nymph — that  livest 
unseen 

Within  thy  airy  shell, 

By  slow  Meander’s  margent  green 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale 
Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well — 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

O,  if  thou  have 

Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where, 

Sweet  queen  of  parly,  daughter  of  the  j 
sphere ! 

So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  heaven’s 
harmonies. 

Enter  Comus. 

Com.  Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth’s 
mould 

Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 

And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 

How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty- vaulted  night — 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkness  till  it  smiled ! I oft  have  heard 
My  mother  Circe  with  the  Sirens  three, 

Amidst  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades 
Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs, 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned 
soul, 

And  lap  it  in  Elysium ; Scylla  wept, 

And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention, 

And  fell  Charybdis  murmured  soft  applause ; 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of  itself. 

But  such  a sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 

Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 

I never  heard  till  now.  I ’ll  speak  to  her, 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen.  Hail,  foreign 
wonder ! 

Whom,  certain,  these  rough  shades  did  never 
breed, 

Unless  the  goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 
Dwellest  here  with  Pan  or  Silvan,  by  blest 
song 


554 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 
To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall 
wood! 

Lad.  Nay,  gentle  Shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that 
praise 

That  is  addressed  to  unattending  ears ; 

Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  severed  company, 
Compelled  me  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo, 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Com.  What  chance,  good  lady,  hath  bereft 
you  thus  ? 

Lad.  Dim  darkness,  and  this  leafy  laby- 
rinth. 

Com.  Could  that  divide  you  from  near  ush- 
ering guides? 

Lad.  They  left  me  weary  on  a grassy  turf. 

Com.  By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy?  or  why? 

Lad.  To  seek  i’  th’  valley  some  cool  friendly 
spring. 

Com.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded, 
lady? 

Lad.  They  were  but  twain,  and  purposed 
quick  return. 

Com.  Perhaps  forestalling  night  prevented 
them. 

Lad.  How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit ! 

Com.  Imports  their  loss,  beside  the  present 
need? 

Lad.  No  less  than  if  I should  my  brothers 
lose. 

Com.  Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youth- 
ful bloom  ? 

Lad.  As  smooth  as  Hebe’s  their  unrazored 
lips. 

Com.  Two  such  I saw,  what  time  the  la- 
bored ox 

In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came, 
And  the  swinked  hedger  at  his  supper  sat ; 

I saw  them,  under  a green  mantling  vine 
That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small  hill, 
Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots. 
Their  port  was  more  than  human,  as  they 
stood ; 

I took  it  for  a fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 

That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live, 

And  play  i’  th’  plighted  clouds.  I was  awe- 
struck ; 

And  as  I passed,  I worshipped.  If  those  you 
seek, 


It  were  a journey  like  the  path  to  heaven 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lad.  Gentle  villager, 

What  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  tha 
place  ? 

Com.  Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shrubby 
point. 

Lad.  To  find  that  out,  good  shepherd,  I 
suppose, 

In  such  a scant  allowance  of  star-light, 

Would  overtask  the  best  land-pilot’s  art, 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practised  feet. 
Com.  I know  each  lane,  and  every  alley 
green, 

Dingle  or  bushy  dell,  of  this  wild  wood, 

And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side — 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighborhood ; 
And  if  your  stray-attendants  be  yet  lodged, 
Or  shroud  within  these  limits,  I shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatched  pallat  rouse ; if  otherwise, 
I can  conduct  you,  lady,  to  a low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 

Lad.  Shepherd,  I take  thy  word, 

And  trust  thy  honest-offered  courtesy, 

Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
With  smoky  rafters,  than  in  tap’stry  halls 
And  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  wras 
named, 

And  yet  is  most  pretended ; in  a place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 

I cannot  be,  that  I should  fear  to  change  it. 
Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my 
trial 

To  my  proportioned  strength.  Shepherd, 
lead  on ! 

Enter  The  Two  Beothees. 

1 Be.  TJnmuffie,  ye  faint  stars ! and  thou, 
fair  moon, 

That  wont’st  to  love  the  traveller’s  benison, 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an  amber 
cloud, 

And  disinherit  Chaos,  that  reigns  here 
In  double  night  of  darkness  and  of  shades ; 

Or  if  your  influence  be  quite  dammed  up 
With  black  usurping  mists,  some  gentle  taper, 
Though  a rush  candle  from  the  wicker-hole 
Of  some  clav  habitation,  visit  us 


J 


COMUS. 


555 


With  thy  long-levelled  rule  of  streaming 
light ; 

And  thou  shalt  be  our  star  of  Arcady, 

Or  Tyrian  cynosure. 

2 Be.  Or  if  our  eyes 

Be  barred  that  happiness,  might  we  but  hear 
The  folded  flocks  penned  in  their  wattled 
cotes, 

Or  sound  of  pastoral  reed  with  oaten  stops, 
Or  whistle  from  the  lodge,  or  village  cock 
Count  the  night  watches  to  his  feathery 
dames, 

’T  would  be  some  solace  yet,  some  little  cheer- 
ing 

In  this  close  dungeon  of  innumerous  boughs. 
But  0 that  hapless  virgin,  our  lost  sister ! 
Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake 
her 

From  the  chill  dew,  among  rude  burs  and 
thistles  ? 

Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bolster  now ; 
Or  ’gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some  broad  elm 
Leans  her  unpillowed  head,  fraught  with  sad 
fears ; 

What  if  in  wild  amazement  and  affright, 

Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direful  grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat  ? 

1 Be.  Peace,  brother!  be  not  over-exqui- 
site 

To  cast  the  fashion  of  uncertain  evils ; 

For  grant  they  be  so — while  they  rest  un- 
known, 

What  need  a man  forestall  his  date  of  grief, 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most  avoid  ? 
Or  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear, 

How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion ! 

I do  not  think  my  sister  so  to  seek, 

Or  so  unprincipled  in  virtue’s  book, 

And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness  bosoms 
ever, 

As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise 
(Not  being  in  danger,  as  I trust  she  is  not) 
Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm 
thoughts, 

And  put  them  into  misbecoming  plight. 
Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  virtue  would 
By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and 
moon 

Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.  And  Wisdom’s  self 
Oft  seeks  to  sweet  retired  solitude, 

Vhere,  with  her  best  nurse,  Contemplation, 


She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets  grow  her 
wings, 

That  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort 
Were  all-to  ruffled,  and  sometimes  impaired. 
He  that  has  light  within  his  own  clear  breast 
May  sit  i’  th’  centre,  and  enjoy  bright  day; 
But  he  that  hides  a dark  soul,  and  foul 
thoughts, 

Benighted  walks  under  the  mid-day  sun ; 
Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 

2 Be.  ’T  is  most  true, 

That  musing  Meditation  most  affects 
The  pensive  secrecy  of  desert  cell, 

Far  from  the  cheerful  haunt  of  men  and  herds, 
And  sits  as  safe  as  in  a senate  house ; 

For  who  would  rob  a hermit  of  his  weeds, 
His  few  books,  or  his  beads,  or  maple  dish, 
Or  do  his  gray  hairs  any  violence  ? 

But  Beauty,  like  the  fair  Hesperian  tree 
Laden  with  blooming  gold,  had  need  the 
guard 

Of  dragon  watch  with  unenchanted  eye, 

To  save  her  blossoms,  and  defend  her  fruit 
From  the  rash  hand  of  bold  incontinence. 
You  may  as  well  spread  out  the  unsunned 
heaps 

Of  miser’s  treasure  by  an  outlaw’s  den, 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope 
Danger  will  wink  on  opportunity, 

And  let  a single  helpless  maiden  pass 
Uninjured  in  this  wild  surrounding  waste. 

Of  night,  or  loneliness,  it  recks  me  not ; 

I fear  the  dread  events  that  dog  them  both, 
Lest  some  ill-greeting  touch  attempt  the  per- 
son 

Of  our  unowned  sister. 

1 Be.  I do  not,  brother, 

Infer  as  if  I thought  my  sister’s  state 
Secure  without  all  doubt,  or  controversy; 

Yet  where  an  equal  poise  of  hope  and  fear 
Does  arbitrate  th’  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I incline  to  hope,  rather  than  fear, 

And  gladly  banish  squint  Suspicion. 

My  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left 
As  you  imagine ; she  has  hidden  strength, 
Which  you  remember  not. 

2 Re.  What  hidden  strength, 

Unless  the  strength  of  Heaven,  if  you  mean 
that? 

1 Be.  I mean  that  too,  but  yet  a hidden 
strength, 


556 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


"Which,  if  Heaven  gave  it,  may  he  termed  her 
own  : 

’T  is  Chastity,  my  brother,  Chastity  : 

She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel, 
And  like  a quivered  nymph  with  arrows  keen 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharbored 
heaths, 

Infamous  hills  and  sandy  perilous  wilds, 
Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  Chastity, 
No  savage  fierce,  bandit,  or  mountaineer, 
Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity ; 

Yea  there,  where  very  Desolation  dwells 
By  grots,  and  caverns  shagged  with  horrid 
shades, 

She  may  pass  on  with  unhlenched  majesty, 

• Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presumption. 
Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night, 
In  fog,  or  fire,  by  lake,  or  moorish  fen, 

Blue,  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn,  unlaid  ghost, 

| That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfeu  time, 
No  goblin,  or  swart  fairy  of  the  mine, 

Hath  hurtful  power  o’er  true  virginity. 

1 Do  ye  believe  me  yet,  or  shall  I call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece 
To  testify  the  arms  of  Chastity  ? 

Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her  dread  bow, 
Fair  silver-shafted  queen,  forever  chaste, 
Wherewith  she  tamed  the  brinded  lioness 
i And  spotted  mountain  pard,  but  set  at  naught 
The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid ; gods  and  men 
Feared  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  queen  o’ 
the  woods. 

What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon  shield 
That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquered  vir- 
gin, 

Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to  congealed 
stone, 

But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity, 

And  noble  grace  that  dashed  brute  violence 
With  sudden  adoration,  and  blank  awe  ? 

So  dear  to  Heaven  is  saintly  Chastity, 

That  when  a soul  is  found  sincerely  so 
A thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt, 
And  in  clear  dream,  and  solemn  vision, 

Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear, 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a beam  on  th’  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 

And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul’s  essence, 
Till  all  be  made  immortal ; but  when  Lust, 


By  unchaste  looks,  loose  gestures,  and  fou. 
talk, 

But  most  by  lewd  and  lavish  act  of  sin, 

Lets  in  Defilement  to  the  inward  parts, 

The  soul  grows  clotted  by  contagion, 
Imbodies  and  imbrutes,  till  she  quite  lose 
The  divine  property  of  her  first  being. 

Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy  shadows 
damp, 

Oft  seen  in  charnel  vaults,  and  sepulchres, 
Lingering,  and  sitting  by  a new-made  grave, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  body  that  it  loved, 

And  linked  itself  by  carnal  sensuality 
To  a degenerate  and  degraded  state. 

2 Be.  How  charming  is  divine  philosophy ! 
Not  harsh,  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo’s  lute, 

And  a perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  reigns. 

1 Be.  List!  list!  I hear 

Some  far  off  halloo  break  the  silent  air. 

2 Be.  Methought  so,  too ; what  should  ifc 

be? 

1 Be.  For  certain 

Either  some  one  like  us,  night-foundered  here, 
Or  else  some  neighbor  wood-man;  or,  at 
worst, 

Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his  fellows. 

2 Be.  Heaven  keep  my  sister.  Again, 

again,  and  near ; 

Best  draw,  and  stand  upon  our  guard. 

1 Be.  I ’ll  halloo; 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well ; if  not, 
Defence  is  a good  cause,  and  Heaven  be  foi 
us. 

The  attendant  Spieit,  habited  like  a Shepherd 

That  halloo  I should  know,  wrhat  are  you? 
speak ; 

Come  not  too  near,  you  fall  on  iron  stakes 
else. 

Spi.  What  voice  is  that  ? my  young  lord  ? 
speak  again. 

2 Be.  0 brother,  ’t  is  my  father’s  shepherd, 

sure. 

1 Be.  Thyrsis?  whose  artful  strains  have 
oft  delayed 

| The  huddling  brook  to  hear  his  madrigal, 
j And  sweetened  every  musk-rose  of  the  dale. 

' How  cam’st  thou  here,  good  swain?  hath 
any  ram 


COMUS. 


557 


Slipt  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid  lost  his 
dam, 

Or  straggling  wether  the  pent  flock  forsook  ? 
How  could’st  thou  find  this  dark  sequestered 
nook? 

Spi.  O my  loved  master’s  heir,  and  his 
next  joy, 

I came  not  here  on  such  a trivial  toy 
As  a strayed  ewe,  or  to  pursue  the  stealth 
Of  pilfering  wolf ; not  all  the  fleecy  wealth 
That  doth  enrich  these  downs  is  worth  a 
thought 

To  this  my  errand,  and  the  care  it  brought. 
But,  0 my  virgin  Lady,  where  is  she  ? 

How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  company  ? 

1 Be.  To  tell  thee  sadly,  shepherd,  without 
blame, 

Or  our  neglect  we  lost  her  as  wc  came. 

Spi.  Aye  me  unhappy ! then  my  fears  are 
true. 

1 Be.  What  fears,  good  Thyrsis  ? Prithee 
briefly  shew. 

Spi.  I ’ll  tell  ye  ; ’t  is  not  vain  or  fabulous 
(Though  so  esteemed  by  shallow  ignorance) 
What  the  sage  poets,  taught  by  th’  heavenly 

Muse, 

I 7 

Storied  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse, 

Of  dire  chimeras  and  enchanted  isles, 

And  rifted  rocks  whose  entrance  leads  to 
hell; 

For  such  there  be,  but  unbelief  is  blind. 

Within  the  navel  of  this  hideous  wood, 
Immured  in  cypress  shades  a sorcerer  dwells, 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great  Comus, 
Deep  skilled  in  all  his  mother’s  witcheries; 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup, 

With  many  murmurs  mixed,  whose  pleasing 
poison 

The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that 
drinks, 

And  the  inglorious  likeness  of  a beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmoulding  Reason’s  mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face ; this  have  I learnt 
Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i’  th’  hilly  crofts, 
That  brow  this  bottom  glade,  whence  night 
by  night 

He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl 
Like  stabled  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their  prey, 
Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers. 


Yet  have  they  many  baits,  and  guileful  spells, 
To'  inveigle  and  invite  th’  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  then  the  chewing  flocks 
Had  ta’en  their  supper  on  the  savory  herb 
Of  knot-grass  dew-besprint,  and  were  in  fold, 
I sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honey-suckle,  and  began, 
Wrapt  in  a pleasing  fit  of  melancholy, 

To  meditate  my  rural  minstrelsy, 

Till  Fancy  had  her  fill ; but  ere  a close, 

The  wonted  roar  was  up  amidst  the  woods, 
And  filled  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance ; 
At  which  I ceased,  and  listened  them  awhile, 
Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 
Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  flighted  steeds 
That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtained  Sleep ; 
At  last  a soft  and  solemn  breathing  sound 
Rose  like  a steam  of  rich  distilled  perfumes, 
And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 
Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she 
might 

Deny  her  nature,  and  be  never  more, 

Still  to  be  so  displaced.  I was  all  ear, 

And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a soul 
Under  the  ribs  of  Death ; but  O,  ere  long, 
Too  well  I did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 
Of  my  most  honored  Lady,  your  dear  sister. 
Amazed  I stood,  harrowed  with  grief  and 
fear; 

And  0 poor  hapless  nightingale,  thought  I, 
How  sweet  thou  sing’st,  how  near  the  deadly 
snare ! 

Then  down  the  lawns  I ran  with  headlong 
haste, 

Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by 
day, 

Till  guided  by  njine  ear  I found  the  place, 
Where  that  damned  wizard,  hid  in  sly  dis- 
guise, 

(For  so  by  certain  signs  I knew)  had  met 
Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  prevent, 
The  aidless  innocent  lady,  his  wished  prey, 
Who  gently  asked  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 
Supposing  him  some  neighbor  villager. 
Longer  I durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I guessed 
Ye  were  the  two  she  meant;  with  that  I 
sprung 

Into  swift  flight,  till  I had  found  you  here; 
But  further  know  I not. 


558 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2 Be.  O night  and  shades, 

How  are  ye  joined  with  hell  in  triple  knot, 
Against  the  unarmed  weakness  of  one  virgin, 
Alone  and  helpless ! Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  brother? 

1 Be.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still, 

Lean  on  it  safely ; not  a period 
Shall  he  unsaid  for  me ; against  the  threats 
Of  Malice  or  of  Sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  Chance,  this  I hold 
firm, 

Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never  hurt, 
Surprised  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthralled; 
Yea,  even  that  which  Mischief  meant  most 
harm, 

Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory; 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil, 

And  mix  no  more  with  goodness,  when  at 
last, 

Gathered  like  scum,  and  settled  to  itself, 

It  shall  be  in  eternal,  restless  change 
Self-fed,  and  self-consumed ; if  this  fail, 

The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness, 

And  earth’s  base  built  on  stubble.  But  come, 
let ’s  on. 

Against  th’  opposing  will  and  arm  of  Heaven 
May  never  this  just  sword  be  lifted  up ; 

But  for  that  damned  magician,  let  him  be 
girt 

With  all  the  grisly  legions  that  troop 
Under  the  sooty  flag  of  Acheron, 

Harpies  and  hydras,  or  all  the  monstrous 
forms 

’Twixt  Africa  and  Ind,  I ’ll  find  him  out, 

And  force  him  to  restore  his  purchase  back, 
Or  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a foul  death, 
Cursed  as  his  life. 

Spi.  Alas ! good  venturous  youth, 

I love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  emprise ; 

But  here  thy  sword  can  do  thee  little  stead. 
Far  other  arms  and  other  weapons  must 
Be  those  that  quell  the  might  of  hellish 
charms ; 

He  with  his  bare  wand  can  unthread  thy 
joints, 

And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 

1 Be.  Why,  prithee,  shepherd, 

How  durst  thou  then  thyself  approach  so 
near 

As  to  make  this  relation  ? 

Spi.  Care,  and  utmost  shifts 


How  to  secure  the  lady  from  surprisal, 
Brought  to  my  mind  a certain  shepherd  lad, 
Of  small  regard  to  see  to,  yet  well  skilled 
In  every  virtuous  plant  and  healing  herb 
That  spreads  her  verdant  leaf  to  th’  morning 
ray: 

He  loved  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg  me 
sing, 

Which  when  I did,  he  on  the  tender  grass 
Would  sit,  and  hearken  even  to  ecstasy, 

And  in  requital  ope  his  leathern  scrip, 

And  shew  me  simples  of  a thousand  names, 
Telling  their  strange  and  vigorous  faculties. 
Among  the  rest  a small  unsightly  root, 

But  of  divine  effect,  he  culled  me  out ; 

The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  on  it, 
But  in  another  country,  as  he  said, 

Bore  a bright  golden  flower,  but  not  in  this 
soil — 

Unknown,  and  like  esteemed,  and  the  dull 
swain 

Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon ; 
And  yet  more  medicinal  is  it  than  that  moly 
That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses  gave ; 

He  called  it  hsemony,  and  gave  it  me, 

And  bade  me  keep  it  as  of  sovereign  use 
’Gainst  all  enchantments,  mildew,  blast,  oi 
damp, 

Or  ghastly  furies’  apparition. 

I pursed  it  up;  but  little  reckoning  made, 

Till  now  that  this  extremity  compelled ; 

But  now  I find  it  true ; for  by  this  means 
I knew  the  foul  enchanter,  though  disguised 
Entered  the  very  lime-twigs  of  his  spells, 
And  yet  came  off;  if  you  have  this  abou< 
you 

(As  I will  give  you  when  we  go),  you  may 
Boldly  assault  the  necromancer’s  hall ; 

Where  if  he  be,  with  dauntless  hardihood 
And  brandished  blade,  rush  on  him,  break 
his  glass, 

And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the  ground, 
But  seize  his  wand ; though  he  and  his  cursed 
crew 

Fierce  sign  of  battle  make,  and  menace  high, 
Or,  like  the  sons  of  Vulcan,  vomit  smoke, 

Yet  will  they  soon  retire  if  he  but  shrink. 

1 Be.  Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace,  I’ll  follow 
thee, 

And  some  good  angel  bear  a shield  before 
us. 


COMUS. 


559 


The  scene  changes  to  a stately  palace,  set  out 
with  all  manner  of  deliciousness  ; soft  mu- 
sic, tables  spread  with  all  dainties.  Comus 
appears  with  his  rabble,  and  the  Lady  set  in 
an  enchanted  chair,  to  whom  he  offers  his 
glass,  which  she  puts  by,  and  goes  about  to 
rise. 

Com.  Nay,  lady,  sit!  if  I but  wave  this 
wand, 

Your  nerves  are  all  chained  up  in  alabaster, 
And  you  a statue,  or  as  Daphne  was 
Root-bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 

Lad.  Fool,  do  not  boast ! 

Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  corporal 
rind 

Ihou  hast  immanacled,  while  Heaven  sees 
good. 

Com.  Why  are  you  vexed,  lady  ? why  do 
you  frown  ? 

Here  dwell  no  frowns,  nor  anger ; from  these 
gates 

Sorrow  flies  far ; see,  here  be  all  the  pleasures 
That  Fancy  can  beget  on  youthful  thoughts, 
When  the  fresh  blood  grows  lively,  and  returns 
Brisk  as  the  April  buds  in  primrose-season. 
And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep  here, 

That  flames  and  dances  in  his  crystal  bounds, 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups 
mixed ; 

Not  that  Nepenthes,  which  the  wife  of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena, 

Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  joy  as  this, 

To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst. 

Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  yourself, 

And  to  those  dainty  limbs  which  nature  lent 
For  gentle  usage,  and  soft  delicacy? 

But  you  invert  the  covenants  of  her  trust, 
And  harshly  deal,  like  an  ill  borrower, 

With  that  which  you  received  on  other  terms, 
Scorning  the  unexempt  condition 
By  which  all  mortal  frailty  must  subsist, 
Refreshment  after  toil,  ease  after  pain, 

That  have  been  tired  all  day  without  repast, 
And  timely  rest  have  wanted ; but  fair  virgin, 
This  will  restore  all  soon. 

Lad.  ’T  will  not,  false  traitor — 

’T  will  not  restore  the  truth  and  honesty 
That  thou  hast  banished  from  thy  tongue  with 
lies. 


W as  this  the  cottage,  and  the  safe  abode, 
Thou  told’st  me  of?  What  grim  aspects  are 
these, 

These  ugly-headed  monsters?  Mercy  guard 
me ! 

Hence  with  thy  brewed  enchantments,  foul 
deceiver ! 

Hast  thou  betrayed  my  credulous  innocence 
With  visored  falsehood  and  base  forgery? 
And  would’st  thou  seek  again  to  trap  me  here 
With  liquorish  baits,  fit  to  insnare  a brute? 
Were  it  a draft  for  Juno  when  she  banquets, 

I would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer;  none 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good  things, 
And  that  which  is  not  good  is  not  delicious 
To  a well-governed  and  wise  appetite. 

Com.  0 foolishness  of  men ! that  lend  their 
ears 

To  those  budge  doctors  of  the  Stoic  fur, 

And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the  Cynic  tub, 
Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  abstinence. 
Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties  forth 
With  such  a full  and  unwithdrawing  hand, 
Covering  the  earth  with  odors,  fruits,  and 
flocks, 

Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumerable, 
But  all  to  please,  and  sate  the  curious  taste  ? 
And  set  to  work  millions  of  spinning  worms, 
That  in  their  green  shops  weave  the  smooth- 
haired silk 

To  deck  her  sons  ; and  that  no  corner  might 
Be  vacant  of  her  plenty,  in  her  own  loins 
She  hutcht  th’  all-worshipped  ore,  and  pre- 
cious gems 

To  store  her  children  with : if  all  the  world 
Should  in  a pet  of  temp’rance  feed  on  pulse, 
Drink  the  clear  stream,  and  nothing  wear  but 
frieze, 

Th’  All-giver  would  be  unthanked,  would  be 
un  praised, 

Not  half  his  riches  known,  and  yet  despised, 
And  we  should  serve  him  as  a grudging  mas- 
ter, 

As  a penurious  niggard  of  his  wealth, 

And  live  like  Nature’s  bastards, *not  her  sons, 
Who  would  be  quite  surcharged  with  her  own 
weight, 

And  strangled  with  her  waste  fertility, 

Th’  earth  cumbered,  and  the  winged  air 
darked  with  plumes, 

The  herds  would  over-multitude  their  lords, 


560  POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

The  sea  o’erfraught  would  swell,  and  th’  un- 
sought diamonds 

Would  so  imblaze  the  forehead  of  the  deep, 
And  so  bestud  with  stars,  that  they  below 
Would  grow  inured  to  light,  and  come  at  last 
To  gaze  upon  the  sun  with  shameless  brows. 
List,  lady,  be  not  coy,  and  be  not  cozened 
With  that  same  vaunted  name,  Virginity. 
Beauty  is  Nature’s  coin,  must  not  be  hoarded, 
But  must  be  current,  and  the  good  thereof 
Consists  in  mutual  and  partaken  bliss, 
Unsavory  in  th’  enjoyment  of  itself; 

If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a neglected  rose 
It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languished  head. 
Beauty  is  Nature’s  brag,  and  must  be  shewn 
In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solemnities, 
Where  most  may  wonder  at  the  workman- 
ship; 

It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home, 

They  had  their  name  thence ; coarse  com- 
plexions 

And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain  will  serve  to  ply 
The  sampler,  and  to  tease  the  housewife’s 
wool. 

What  need  a vermeil-tinctured  lip  for  that, 
Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the  morn  ? 
There  was  another  meaning  in  these  gifts ; 
Think  what,  and  be  advised,  you  are  but 
young  yet. 

Lad.  I had  not  thought  to  have  unlocked 
my  lips 

In  this  unhallowed  air,  but  that  this  juggler 
Would  think  to  charm  my  judgment,  as  mine 
eyes, 

Obtruding  false  rules  pranked  in  Reason’s 
garb. 

I hate  when  Vice  can  bolt  her  arguments, 
And  Virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check  her  pride. 
Impostor,  do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature 
As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 
With  her  abundance ; she,  good  cateress, 
Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good, 

That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 

And  holy  dictate  of  spare  temperance ; 

If  every  justf  man,  that  now  pines  with  want, 
Had  but  a moderate  and  beseeming  share 
Of  that  which  lewdly-pampered  luxury 
Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast  excess, 
Nature’s  full  blessings  would  be  well  dispensed 
In  unsuperfluous  even  proportion, 

And  she  no  whit  encumbered  with  her  store;  1 

And  then  the  Giver  would  be  better  thanked, 
His  praise  due  paid ; for  swinish  Gluttony 
Ne’er  looks  to  Heaven  amidst  his  gorgeous 
feast, 

But  with  besotted  base  ingratitude 
Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  feeder.  Shall  I 
go  on? 

Or  have  I said  enough  ? To  him  that  dares 
Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  contemptuous 
words 

Against  the  sun-clad  power  of  Chastity, 

Fain  would  I something  say,  yet  to  what 
end? 

Thou  hast  not  ear,  nor  soul,  to  apprehend 
The  sublime  notion  and  high  mystery 
That  must  be  uttered  to  unfold  the  sage 
And  serious  doctrine  of  Virginity ; 

And  thou  art  worthy  that  thou  should’st  not 
know 

More  happiness  than  this  thy  present  lot. 
Enjoy  your  dear  wit,  and  gay  rhetoric, 

That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her  dazzling 
fence, 

Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced ; 
Yet  should  I try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 
Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my  rapt 
spirits 

To  such  a flame  of  sacred  vehemence 
That  dumb  things  would  be  moved  to  sym- 
pathize, 

And  the  brute  earth  would  lend  her  nerves, 
and  shake, 

Till  all  thy  magic  structures,  reared  so  high, 
Were  shattered  into  heaps  o’er  thy  false  head. 

Com.  She  fables  not;  I feel  that  I do  fear 
Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power ; 
And  though  not  mortal,  yet  a cold  shudder 
ing  dew 

Hips  me  all  o’er,  as  when  the  wrath  of  Jove 
Speaks  thunder,  and  the  chains  of  Erebus, 

To  some  of  Saturn’s  crew.  I must  dissemble, 
And  try  her  yet  more  strongly.  Come,  no 
more; 

This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 
Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  foundation ; 

I must  not  suffer  this;  yet ’t  is  but  the  lees 
And  settlings  of  a melancholy  blood. 

But  this  will  cure  all  straight;  one  sip  of  this 
Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in  delight 
Beyond  the  bliss  of  dreams.  Be  wise,  and 
taste — 

COMITS. 


561 


The  Brothers  rush  in  with  swords  drawn , 
wrest  his  glass  out  of  his  hand , and  break 
it  against  the  ground  ; his  rout  malce  sign 
of  resistance , but  are  all  driven  in ; the 
attendant  Spirit  comes  in. 

Spi.  What ! have  you  let  the  false  enchanter 
’scape  ? 

O ye  mistook!  ye  should  have  snatched  his 
wand 

And  hound  him  fast:  without  his  rod  re- 
versed, 

And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 
We  cannot  free  the  lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fixed,  and  motionless. 

Yet  stay! be  not  disturbed;  now  I bethink 
me, 

Some  other  means  I have  which  may  be  used, 
Which  once  of  Melibceus  old  I learnt, 

The  soothest  shepherd  that  e’er  piped  on 
plains. 

There  is  a gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence, 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Sev- 
ern stream; 

Sabrina  is  her  name,  a virgin  pure ; 

Whilome  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  father  Brute. 
She,  guileless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 
Of  her  enraged  stepdame,  Guendolen, 
Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood, 
That  stayed  her  flight  with  his  cross-flowing 
course. 

The  water-nymphs  that  in  the  bottom  played, 
.Held  up  their  pearled  wrists  and  took  her  in, 
Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Nereus’  hall, 
Who,  piteous  of  her  woes,  reared  her  lank 
head, 

And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to  imbathe 
In  nectared  lavers  strowed  with  asphodil, 
And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each 
sense 

Dropt  in  ambrosial  oils  till  she  revived, 

And  underwent  a quick  immortal  change, 
Made  goddess  of  the  river ; still  she  retains 
Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  oft  at  eve 
Visits  the  herds  along  the  twilight  meadows, 
Helping  all  urchin  blasts,  and  ill-luck  signs 
That  the  shrewd  meddling  elf  delights  to 
make, 

Which  she  with  precious  vialed  liquors  heals ; 
For  which  the  shepherds,  at  their  festivals, 
36 


Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic  lays, 

And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths  into  hei 
stream, 

Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffodils. 

And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can  unlock 
The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  mumming 
spell, 

If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled  song; 

For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will  be  swift 
To  aid  a virgin,  such  as  was  herself, 

In  hard  besetting  need ; this  will  I try, 

And  add  the  power  of  some  adjuring  verse. 

SONG. 

Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 
In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 
Listen,  for  dear  Honor’s  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 

Listen  and  save ! 

Listen,  and  appear  to  us 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus ; 

By  th’  earth-shaking  Neptune’s  mace, 

And  Tethy’s  grave  majestic  pace; 

By  hoary  Nereus’  wrinkled  look, 

And  the  Carpathian  wizard’s  hook ; 

By  scaly  Triton’s  winding  shell, 

And  old  sooth-saying  Glaucus’  spell; 

By  Leucothea’s  lovely  hands, 

And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands; 

By  Thetis’  tinsel-slippered  feet, 

And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet ; 

By  dead  Parthenope’s  dear  tomb, 

And  fair  Ligea’s  golden  comb, 

Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks ; 

By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance — 

Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed, 

And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave, 

Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 
Listen  and  save ! 

Sabrina  rises,  attended  by  water  nymphs,  and 
sings. 

Br  the  rushy-fringed  bank, 

Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dank, 


562 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


My  sliding  chariot  stays, 

Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azure  sheen 
Of  turkois  blue,  and  emerald  green, 
That  in  the  channel  strays ; 

Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I set  my  printless  feet 
O’er  the  cowslip’s  velvet  head, 

That  bends  not  as  I tread ; 

Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request 
I am  here. 

Spi.  Goddess  dear, 

We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  hand 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed, 

Through  the  force  and  through  the  wile 
Of  unblest  enchanter  vile. 

Sab.  Shepherd,  ’t  is  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared  chastity : 

Brightest  lady,  look  on  me ! 

Thus  I sprinkle  on  thy  breast 
Drops  that  from  my  fountain  pure 
I have  kept  of  precious  cure, 

Thrice  upon  thy  fingers’  tip, 

Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip ; 

Next  this  marble  venomed  seat, 

Smeared  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat, 

I touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and  cold : 
Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold ; 

And  I must  haste  ere  morning  hour 
To  wait  in  Amphitrite’s  bower.  * 

Sabrina  descends , and  the  Lady  rises  out  of 
her  seat . 

Spi.  Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine, 

Sprung  from  old  Anchises’  line, 

May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 
Their  full  tribute  never  miss 
From  a thousand  petty  rills, 

That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills ; 
Summer  drought,  or  singed  air, 

Never  scorch  thy  tresses  fair, 

Nor  wet  October’s  torrent  flood 
Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mud ; 

May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 
The  beryl,  and  the  golden  ore ; 

May  thy  lofty  head  be  crowned 
With  many  a tower  and  terrace  round, 

And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 
With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 


Come,  lady!  while  Heaven  lends  us  grace, 
Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 

Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice 
With  some  other  new  device. 

Not  a waste  or  needless  sound, 

Till  we  come  to  holier  ground ; 

I shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide ; 

And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  father’s  residence, 

Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a friend  to  gratulate 
His  wished  presence,  and  beside 
All  the  swains  that  near  abide, 

With  jigs  and  rural  dance  resort ; 

We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport, 

And  our  sudden  coming  there 
Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  cheer ; 
Come,  let  us  haste,  the  stars  grow  high, 
But  night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the  mid  sky. 

The  scene  changes , 'presenting  Ludlow  town 
and  the  President's  castle;  then  come  in 
country  dancers ; after  them  the  attendant 
Spirit,  with  the  two  Brothers  and  the 
Lady. 

SONG. 

Spi.  Back,  shepherds,  back ! enough  your 
play 

Till  next  sun-shine  holiday ; 

Here  be  without  duck  or  nod 
Other  trippings  to  be  trod — 

Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 
As  Mercury  did  first  devise 
With  the  mincing  Dryades 
On  the  lawns,  and  on  the  leas. 

This  second  song  presents  them  to  their  father 
and  mother. 

Noble  lord,  and  lady  bright, 

I have  brought  ye  new  delight ; 

Here  behold,  so  goodly  grown, 

Three  fair  branches  of  your  own ; 

Heaven  hath  timely  tried  their  youth, 
Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truth, 
And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays, 
With  a crown  of  deathless  praise, 

To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
O’er  sensual  folly  and  intemperance. 


HYLAS. 


563 


The  dances  ended , the  Spirit  epiloguizes. 

Spi.  To  the  ocean  now  I fly, 

And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 
Where  Day  never  shuts  his  eye, 

Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky. 

There  I suck  the  liquid  air 
All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 
Of  Hesperus,  and  his  daughters  three 
That  sing  about  the  golden  tree. 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 
Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring; 

The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours, 
Thither  all  their  bounties  bring ; 

There  eternal  Summer  dwells, 

And  west-winds  with  musky  wing 
About  the  cedared  alleys  fling 
Hard  and  cassia’s  balmy  smells. 

Iris  there  with  humid  bow 
Waters  the  odorous  hanks  that  blow 
Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 
Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  shew, 

And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 
(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 

Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 

Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 

Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 
In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 
Sadly  sits  th’  Assyrian  queen ; 

But  far  above,  in  spangled  sheen, 

Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 
Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  entranced, 
Aiter  her  wand’ring  labors  long, 

Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 
Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 
Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born, 

Youth  and  Joy ; so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done ; 

I can  fly,  or  I can  run, 

Quickly  to  the  green  earth’s  end, 

Where  the  bowed  welkin  low  doth  bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals  that  would  follow  me, 

Love  Virtue ; she  alone  is  free ; 

She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 

Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were, 

Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

John  Milton. 


HYLAS. 

Storm- wearied  Argo  slept  upon  the  water. 

Ho  cloud  was  seen ; on  blue  and  craggy  Ida 

The  hot  noon  lay,  and  on  the  plain’s  enamel ; 

Cool,  in  his  bed,  alone,  the  swift  Scamander. 

“ Why  should  I haste  ? ” said  young  and  rosy 
Hylas : 

“ The  seas  were  rough,  and  long  the  way  from 
Colchis. 

Beneath  the  snow-white  awning  slumbers  Ja- 
son, 

Pillowed  upon  his  tame  Thessalian  panther ; 

The  shields  are  piled,  the  listless  oars  sus- 
pended 

On  thePblack  thwarts,  and  all  the  hairy  bonds- 
men 

Doze  on  the  benches.  They  may  wait  for 
water, 

Till  I have  bathed  in  mountain-born  Scaman- 
der.” 

So  said,  unfilleting  his  purple  chlamys, 

And  putting  down  his  urn,  he  stood  a mo- 
ment, 

Breathing  the  faint,  warm  odor  of  the  blos- 
soms 

That  spangled  thick  the  lovely  Dardan  mead- 
ows. 

Then,  stooping  lightly,  loosened  he  his  bus- 
kins, 

And  felt  with  shrinking  feet  the  crispy  ver- 
dure; 

Haked,  save  one  light  robe  that  from  his 
shoulder 

Hung  to  his  knee,  the  youthful  flush  reveal- 
ing 

Of  warm,  white  limbs,  half-nerved  with  com- 
ing manhood, 

Yet  fair  and  smooth  with  tenderness  of  beauty. 

How  to  the  river’s  sandy  marge  advancing, 

He  dropped  the  robe,  and  raised  his  head  ex- 
ulting 

In  the  clear  sunshine,  that  with  beam  em- 
bracing 

Held  him  against  Apollo’s  glowing  bosom. 

For  sacred  to  Latona’s  son  is  Beauty, 

Sacred  is  Youth,  the  joy  of  youthful  feeling. 

A joy  indeed,  a living  joy,  was  Hylas, 





564 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Whence  Jove-begotten  Heracles,  the  mighty, 
To  men  thongh  terrible,  to  him  was  gentle, 
Smoothing  his  rugged  nature  into  laughter 
When  the  boy  stole  his  club,  or  from  his 
shoulders 

Dragged  the  huge  paws  of  the  Nemaean  lion. 

The  thick,  brown  locks,  tossed  backward  from 
his  forehead, 

Fell  soft  about  his  temples ; manhood’s  blos- 
som 

Not  yet  had  sprouted  on  his  chin,  but  freshly 
Curved  the  fair  cheek,  and  full  the  red  lips’ 
parting, 

Like  a loose  bow,  that  just  has  launched  its 
arrow. 

His  large  blue  eyes,  with  joy  dil^e  and 
beamy, 

Were  clear  as  the  unshadowed  Grecian  heav- 
en; 

Dewy  and  sleek  his  dimpled  shoulders  rounded 
To  the  white  arms  and  whiter  breast  between 
them. 

Downward,  the  supple  lines  had  less  of  soft- 
ness: 

His  back  was  like  a god’s;  his  loins  were 
moulded 

As  if  some  pulse  of  power  began  to  waken ; 
The  springy  fulness  of  his  thighs,  outswerv- 
ing, 

Sloped  to  his  knee,  and,  lightly  dropping 
downward, 

Drew  the  curved  lines  that  breathe,  in  rest, 
of  motion. 

He  saw  his  glorious  limbs  reversely  mirrored 
In  the  still  wave,  and  stretched  his  foot  to 
press  it 

On  the  smooth  sole  that  answered  at  the  sur- 
face : 

Alas ! the  shape  dissolved  in  glimmering 
fragments. 

Then,  timidly  at  first,  he  dipped,  and  catching 
Quick  breath,  with  tingling  shudder,  as  the 
waters 

Swirled  round  his  thighs,  and  deeper,  slowly 
deeper, 

Till  on  his  breast  the  river's  cheek  was  pil- 
lowed, 

And  deeper  still,  till  every  shoreward  ripple 
Talked  in  his  ear,  and  like  a cygnet’s  bosom 


His  white,  round  shoulder  shed  the  dripping 
crystal. 

There,  as  he  floated,  with  a rapturous  motion, 
The  lucid  coolness  folding  close  around  him, 
The  lily-cradling  ripples  murmured,  “ Hylas ! ” 
He  shook  from  off  his  ears  the  hyacinthine 
Curls,  that  had  lain  unwet  upon  the  water, 
And  still  the  ripples  murmured,  “Hylas 
Hylas!” 

He  thought:  “The  voices  are  but  ear-born 
music. 

Pan  dwells  not  here,  and  Echo  still  is  calling 
From  some  high  cliff  that  tops  a Thracian 
valley ; 

So  long  mine  ears,  on  tumbling  Hellespontus, 
Have  heard  the  sea  waves  hammer  Argo’s 
forehead, 

That  I misdeem  the  fluting  of  this  current 
For  some  lost  nymph — ” Again  the  murmur, 
“Hylas!” 

And  with  the  sound  a cold,  smooth  arm 
around  him 

Slid  like  a wave,  and  down  the  clear,  green 
darkness 

Glimmered  on  either  side  a shining  bosom — 
Glimmered,  uprising  slow ; and  ever  closer 
Wound  the  cold  arms,  till,  climbing  to  his 
shoulders, 

Their  cheeks  lay  nestled,  while  the  purple 
tangles, 

Their  loose  hair  made,  in  silken  mesh  enwound 
him. 

Their  eyes  of  clear,  pale  emerald  then  uplift- 
ing, 

They  kissed  his  neck  with  lips  of  humid  coral, 
And  once  again  there  came  a murmur,  “Hy- 
las! 

O,  come  with  us ! O,  follow  where  we  wan- 
der 

Deep  down  beneath  the  green,  translucent 
ceiling — 

Where  on  the  sandy  bed  of  old  Scamander 
With  cool  white  buds  we  braid  our  purple 
tresses, 

Lulled  by  the  bubbling  waves  around  us 
stealing ! 

Thou  fair  Greek  boy,  O come  with  us ! 0, 

follow 

Where  thou  no  more  shalt  hear  Propontis 
riot, 

' But  by  our  arms  be  lapped  in  endless  quiet, 


HYLAS. 


Within  the  glimmering  caves  of  Ocean  hol- 
low ! 

We  have  no  love ; alone,  of  all  the  immortals, 

We  have  no  love.  O,  love  us,  we  who  press 
thee 

With  faithful  arms,  though  cold, — whose  lips 
caress  thee, — 

Who  hold  thy  beauty  prisoned!  Love  us, 
Hylas ! ” 

The  sound  dissolved  in  liquid  murmurs,  call- 
ing 

Still  as  it  faded,  “ Come  with  us!  O follow ! ” 

The  boy  grew  chill  to  feel  their  twining  pres- 
sure 

Lock  round  his  limbs,  and  hear  him,  vainly 
striving, 

Down  from  the  noonday  brightness.  ‘ ‘ Leave 
me,  Naiads ! 

Leave  me!”  he  cried;  “the  day  to  me  is 
dearer 

Than  all  your  caves  deep-sphered  in  Ocean’s 
quiet. 

I am  but  mortal,  seek  hut  mortal  pleasure  : 

I would  not  change  this  flexile,  warm  exist- 
ence, 

Though  swept  by  storms,  and  shocked  by 
Jove’s  dread  thunder, 

To  he  a king  beneath  the  dark-green  waters.” 

Still  moaned  the  humid  lips,  between  their 
kisses, 

“We  have  no  love.  O,  love  us,  we  who  love 
thee!” 

And  came  in  answer,  thus,  the  words  of  Hy- 
las : 

“ My  love  is  mortal.  For  the  Argive  maid- 
ens 

I keep  the  kisses  which  your  lips  would 
ravish. 

Unlock  your  cold  white  arms — take  from  my 
shoulder 

The  tangled  swell  of  your  bewildering  tresses. 

Let  me  return  : the  wind  comes  down  from 
Ida, 

And  soon  the  galley,  stirring  from  her  slum- 
ber, 

Will  fret  to  ride  where  Pelion’s  twilight 
shadow 

Falls  o’er  the  towers  of  Jason’s  sea-girt  city. 

I am  not  yours — I cannot  braid  the  lilies 

In  your  wet  hair  nor  on  your  argent  bosoms 


565 

Close  my  drowsed  eyes  to  hear  your  rippling 
voices. 

Hateful  to  me  your  sweet,  cold,  crystal  be- 
ing,— 

Your  world  of  watery  quiet.  Help,  Apollo ! 

For  I am  thine : thy  fire,  thy  beam,  thy  mu- 
sic, 

Dance  in  my  heart  and  flood  my  sense  with 
rapture ; 

The  joy,  the  warmth  and  passion  now  awa- 
ken, 

Promised  by  thee,  but  erewhile  calmly  sleep- 
ing. 

0,  leave  me,  Naiads!  loose  your  chill  em- 
braces, 

Or  I shall  die,  for  mortal  maidens  pining.” 

But  still  with  unrelenting  arms  they  bound 
him, 

And  still,  accordant,  flowed  their  watery 
voices : 

“We  have  thee  now — we  hold  thy  beauty 
prisoned ; 

0,  come  with  us  beneath  the  emerald  waters ! 

We  have  no  love;  we  love  thee,  rosy  Hylas. 

0,  love  us,  who  shall  never  more  release 
thee — 

Love  us,  whose  milky  arms  will  be  thy  cra- 
dle 

Far  down  on  the  untroubled  sands  of  ocean, 

Where  now  we  bear  thee,  clasped  in  our  em- 
braces.” 

And  slowly,  slowly  sank  the  amorous  Naiads ; 

The  boy’s  blue  eyes,  upturned,  looked  through 
the  water, 

Pleading  for  help;  but  Heaven’s  immortal 
archer 

Was  swathed  in  cloud.  The  ripples  hid  his 
forehead ; 

And  last,  the  thick,  bright  curls  a moment 
floated, 

So  warm  and  silky  that  the  stream  upbore 
them, 

Closing  reluctant,  as  he  sank  for  ever. 

The  sunset  died  behind  the  crags  of  Imbros. 

Argo  was  tugging  at  her  chain  ; for  freshly 

Blew  the  swift  breeze,  and  leaped  the  restless 
billows. 

The  voice  of  Jason  roused  the  dozing  sailors, 

And  up  the  mast  was  heaved  the  snowy 
canvas. 


566 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


But  mighty  Heracles,  the  Jove-begotten, 
Unmindful  stood,  beside  the  cool  Scamander, 
Leaning  upon  his  club.  A purple  chlamys 
Tossed  o’er  an  urn  was  all  that  lay  before 
him : 

And  when  he  called,  expectant,  “Hylas! 
Hylas ! ” 

The  empty  echoes  made  him  answer — “Hy- 
las!” 

Bayabd  Taylob. 


RHCECUS. 

God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age, 

To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men, 

With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 
And  shape  of  mind,  nor  gives  the  realm  of 
Truth 

Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race. 
Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that  hath 
swayed 

The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 
The  master-key  of  knowledge,  reverence, 
Enfolds  some  germs  of  goodness  and  of  right ; 
Else  never  had  the  eager  soul,  which  loathes 
The  slothful  down  of  pampered  ignorance, 
Found  in  it  even  a moment’s  fitful  rest. 

There  is  an  instinct  in  the  human  heart 
Which  makes  that  all  the  fables  it  hath 
coined, 

To  justify  the  reign  of  its  belief 

And  strengthen  it  by  beauty’s  right  divine, 

Veil  in  their  inner  cells  a mystic  gift, 

Which,  like  the  hazel-twig,  in  faithful  hands, 
Points  surely  to  the  hidden  springs  of  truth. 
For,  as  in  nature  naught  is  made  in  vain, 

But  all  things  have  within  their  hull  of  use 
A wisdom  and  a meaning,  which  may  speak 
Of  spiritual  secrets  to  the  ear 
Of  spirit : so,  in  whatsoe’er  the  heart 
Hath  fashioned  for  a solace  to  itself, 

To  make  its  inspirations  suit  its  creed, 

And  from  the  niggard  hands  of  Falsehood 
wring 

Its  needful  food  of  truth,  there  ever  is 
A sympathy  with  Nature,  which  reveals, 

Not  less  than  her  own  works,  pure  gleams  of 
light 


And  earnest  parables  of  inward  lore. 

Hear  now  this  fairy  legend  of  old  Greece, 

As  full  of  freedom,  youth,  and  beauty  still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze. 

A youth  named  Rhcecus,  wandering  in  the 
wood, 

Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall ; 
And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a tree, 

He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring 
care, 

And  with  a thoughtless  footstep  loitered  on. 
But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a voice  behind 
That  murmured  “ Rhcecus ! ” — ’T  was  as  if  the 
leaves, 

Stirred  by  a passing  breath,  had  murmured 
it ; 

And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet  again 
It  murmured  “Rhcecus!”  softer  than  a 
breeze. 

He  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a happy  dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a warm 
glow 

Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy  oak. 
It  seemed  a woman’s  shape,  yet  all  too  fair 
To  be  a woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods. 
All  naked  like  a goddess  stood  she  there, 

And  like  a goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To  feel  the  guilt-born  earthliness  of  shame. 

“ Rhcecus,  I am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree — ” 
Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned 
words, 

Serene,  and  full,  and  clear,  as  drops  of  dew — 
“ And  with  it  I am  doomed  to  live  and  die ; 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers, 

Nor  have  I other  bliss  than  simple  life  ; 

Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I can  give, 
And  with  a thankful  joy  it  shall  he  thine.” 

Then  Rhcecus,  with  a flutter  at  the  heart, 
Yet,  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty,  hold, 
Answered : “ What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  he  evermore  my  spirit’s  goal.” 
After  a little  pause  she  said  again, 

But  with  a glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 

“ I give  it,  Rhoecus,  though  a perilous  gift ; 


RHCECUS.  567 


An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here.” 
And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he  could 
see 

But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy 
oak ; 

And  not  a sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And,  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope, 

The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd’s  pipe. 

Now,  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and  faith, 
Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things  were 
dreams 

Because  they  overstepped  the  narrow  bourne 
Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 
Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 
To  be  the  guerdon  of  a daring  heart. 

So  Rhoecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  blest ; 
And  all  along  unto  the  city’s  gate 
Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as  he 
walked ; 

The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its 
wont, 

And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not 
wings — 

Such  sunshine  seemed  to  glitter  through  his 
veins 

Instead  of  blood,  so  light  he  felt  and  strange. 

Young  Rhoecus  had  a faithful  heart  enough, 
But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too  much, 
And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  whatsoe’er 
Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in 
that, 

Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a vale, 

Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked  be- 
yond. 

So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 

Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the  dice, 

Ho  joined  them  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 

The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 

And  Rhoecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a yel- 
low bee 

That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down-dropped 
legs, 

As  if  to  light.  And  Rhoecus  laughed  and 
said, 


Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with 
loss, 

“ By  Yenus ! does  he  take  me  for  a rose  ? ” 
And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient 
hand. 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice  again, 
Rhoecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing  wrath. 
Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded 
bee ; 

And  Rhoecus,  tracking  him  with  angry  eyes, 
Saw  a sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 
Against  the  red  disc  of  the  setting  sun, — 
And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his  heart, 
As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 

Without  a word  he  turned,  and  rushing  forth, 
Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate, 
And  o’er  the  plain,  which  now  the  woods 
long  shade, 

By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and 
dim, 

Darkened  well-nigh  unto  the  city’s  wall. 

Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath,  he  reached 
the  tree ; 

And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once  more 
The  low  voice  murmur  “ Rhoecus ! ” close  at 
hand — 

Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could  see 
Nought  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath 
the  oak. 

Then  sighed  the  voice,  “ 0,  Rhoecus ! never 
more 

Shalt  thou  behold  me,  or  by  day  or  night — 
Me,  who  would  fain  have  blest  thee  with  a 
love 

More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 
Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart ; 

But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  messenger, 
And  sent’st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised 
wings. 

We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes — 

We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love ; 

And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature’s 
works 

Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 
Farewell  1 for  thou  canst  never  see  me  more.” 

Then  Rhoecus  beat  his  breast,  and  groaned 
aloud, 

And  cried,  “ Be  pitiful ! forgive  mo  yet 
This  once,  and  I shall  never  need  it  more ! ” 


J 


568 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


“ Alas ! ” the  voice  returned,  “ ’t  is  thou  art 
blind, 

Not  I unmerciful ; I can  forgive, 

But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit’s  eyes ; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o’er  itself.” 

With  that  again  there  murmured  “Never- 
more ! ” 

And  Rhoecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the  rattling  of  the  oak’s  crisp  leaves, 
Like  the  long  surf  upon  a distant  shore, 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 
The  night  had  gathered  round  him ; o’er  the 
plain 

The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a curse ; above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars, 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the 
breeze ; 

Beauty  was  all  around  him, and  delight; 

But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth. 

James  Eussell  Lowell. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  REVIEW. 

At  midnight  from  his  grave 
The  drummer  woke  and  rose, 

And  beating  loud  the  drum, 
Forth  on  his  errand  goes. 

Stirred  by  his  fleshless  arms, 

The  drumsticks  rise  and  fall ; 

He  beats  the  loud  retreat, 
Reveille  and  roll-call. 

So  strangely  rolls  that  drum, 

So  deep  it  echoes  round, 

Old  soldiers  in  their  graves 
To  life  start  at  the  sound  : 

Both  they  in  farthest  North, 
Stiff  in  the  ice  that  lay, 

And  they  who  warm  repose 
Beneath  Italian  clay ; 

Below  the  mud  of  Nile, 

And  ’neath  Arabian  sand, 

Their  burial-place  they  quit, 

And  soon  to  arms  they  stand. 


And  at  midnight  from  his  grave 
The  trumpeter  arose, 

And,  mounted  on  his  horse,  % 

A loud,  shrill  blast  he  blows. 

On  airy  coursers  then 
The  cavalry  are  seen — 

Old  squadrons,  erst  renowned — 

Gory  and  gashed,  I ween. 

Beneath  the  casque  their  skulls 
Smile  grim ; and  proud  their  air, 

As  in  their  bony  hands 
Their  long,  sharp  swords  they  bare. 

At  midnight  from  his  tomb 
The  chief  awoke  and  rose, 

And,  followed  by  his  staff, 

With  slow  steps  on  he  goes. 

A little  hat  he  wears, 

A coat  quite  plain  wears  he ; 

A little  sword,  for  arms, 

At  his  left  side  hangs  free. 

O’er  the  vast  plain  the  moon 
A paly  lustre  threw ; 

The  man  with  the  little  hat 
The  troops  goes  to  review. 

The  ranks  present  their  arms — 

Deep  rolls  the  drum  the  while ; 

Recovering  then,  the  troops 
Before  the  chief  defile. 

Captains  and  generals  round. 

In  circles  formed,  appear ; 

The  chief  to  the  first  a word 
Now  whispers  in  his  ear. 

The  word  goes  round  the  ranks, 
Resounds  along  the  line ; 

That  word  they  give  is— France  ! 

The  answer — St.  Helene  ! 

’T  is  there,  at  midnight  hour, 

The  grand  review,  they  say, 

Is  by  dead  Csesar  held 
In  the  Champs-Elysees ! 

Joseph  Christian  ton  Zedlitz.  (German.) 

Anonymous  Translation. 


THE 


THE  grand; 


Now,  up  and  come  with  me  to-day, 

O,  comrade  tried  and  true, 

For  side  by  side  we  must  mount  and  ride 
To  see  the  great  review. 

Sabre  and  sash  and  stars,  my  boy, 

And  a dash  through  the  frosty  morn 
| Of  fhe  brightest  day,  to  the  best  array 
Since  you  and  I were  born. 

I Forward ! A touch  of  the  spur  will  do : 

Your  old  nag  gallops  well— 

What  a reveille  ’tis  for  you  and  me  l 
How  a fellow’s  heart  will  swell ! 

| Halt,  here,  on  the  brow  of  the  ridge,  old  boy. 

For  yonder  the  river  runs. 

And  we’d  best  pull  rein  above  the  plain. 

Well  out  of  the  way  of  the  guns. 

Hark!  How  the  rumble  is  growing  now! 

The  thunder  of  hoof  and  wheel, 

And  the  roll  of  the  drums  as  the  column  comes, 
And  the  cavalry  bugle’s  peal! 

Grand ! It  is  grand,  this  shining  day. 

To  see  them  march  once  more, 

And  the  glory-lit  rags  of  the  shot-torn  hags 
From  every  camp  and  corps. 

Eight  shoulder  shift  the  bayonets  bright, 

As  the  gallant  boys  advance ; 

And  the  sabres  ring  and  the  guidons  swing. 

And  the  held-in  horses  dance. 

Shoulder  arms ! And  that’s  the  salute, 

As  they  pass  that  rise  of  ground, 

And  the  blue  blades  flash  alid  the  cymbals  crash, 
And  the  cheers  of  victory  sound. 

Watch  for  the  faces  we  used  to  know 
In  the  long-gone  battle  days, 

In  the  weary  tramps,  in  the  fields  and  camps— 

Can  you  tell  then®  through  this  haze? 

There  arc  Sedgwick,  McPherson,  Reynolds, 

And  Wadsworth  and  Kearny,  too, 

But  bless  my  soul!  Who  is  that  on  the  knoll 
Watching  this  grand  review? 

There  are  faces  and  names  by  the  score,  old  man, 
To  -which  our  hearts  once  clung, 

But  there’s  a mist  in  my  eye  as  the  boys  go  by, 
And  I seem  to  lose  my  tongue. 

For  that  is  Lincoln,  there  on  the  knoll, 

O brave  old  comrade  mine. 

And  the  soldierly  tread  is  the  march  of  the  dead— 
Of  the  boys  who  died  in  line! 

WILLIAM  O.  STODDARD. 


On* 


[orty-fourth-st. 
f-lghth-st.  It  is  in 


>ne- 


mt  for 
!at  street 

stagnant  and.  unhealthful.  Some  of  the 
old  sewers  in  the  Twenty-third  Ward  are  also  in  had 
condition.  The  new  sewers  are  not  all  connected 
with  the  places  especially  In  need  of  drainage,  and 
many  stagnant  pools  exist  as  a menace  to  the  health 
of  me  residents.  The  Board  of  Health  has  apparently 
paid  little  attention  to  the  exlstenoe  of  nuisances  in 
I the  upper  wards. 

The  contest  between  the  Suburban  and  Volunteer 
Baseball  Clubs  for  the  championship  of  the  Twenty- 
fourth  Ward  has  been  the  most  exciting  incident  in 
Nortliside  athletics.  The  Volunteers  had,  previous 
to  the  game  of  September  17,  been  successful  in  every 
game,  and  the  Suburban  victory  of  that  day  made 
the  two  clubs  on  even  terms  for  the  championship 
and  the  trophy  presented  by  Alderman  Schott.  The 
local  baseball  enthusiasts— and  they  are  many— have 
raredy  witnessed  a more  interesting  series  of  games. 

The  Sunday-School  Association  of  the  northern  ward; 
held  its  annual  meeting  on  Monday  evening.  Among 
the  subjects  discussed  were  the  holding  of  public 
meetings,  the  organization  of  normal  classes  and  the 
visiting  of  the  schools  by  a committee  of  the  associa- 
tion. A public  meeting  will  be  held  this  afternoon 
at  the  Morrlsania  Presbyterian  Church.  The  officers 
of  the  association  for  the  year  ending  in  September, 
1803,  were  elected.  Those  chosen  were : George  W. 
Conner,  president ; the  Rev.  A.  L.  R.  Waite,  vice- 
president  : Charles  D.  Steurer,  secretary,  and  James 
G.  Martin,  treasurer. 

The  High-Bridge  Improvement  Association  held 
its  annual  meeting  on  Thursday  and  elected  as  officers, 
D.  A.  McLeod,  president;  Edgar  Ketcham,  vice- 
president:  Frank  J.  Fitzpatrick,  recording  secretary; 
C.  H.  Dannewitz,  corresponding  and  financial  sec- 
retary; A.  L.  Casey,  treasurer. 

The  Belmont  Club  gave  an  entertainment  on  Friday 
evening,  which  attracted  more  persons  than  could 
easily  iiud  places  in  the  hall.  The  songs,  dances 
land  recitations  were  well  received  and  a social 
entertainment  closed  the  evening.  Among  the  guestsl 
were  J.  H.  J.  Ronner,  J.  Thomas  Stearns,  John 
Osborn^,  and  Sherwood  T.  Kipp,  and  the  basts  included! 
the  officers  of  the  club,  W.  D.  Carroll,  president  ; E. 
Heifernan,  vice-president;  F.  D.  Holbrook,  secretary;) 
and  Charles  Stonebridge,  treasurer. 


review  0 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.  569 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MAR- 
INER. 

IN  SEVEN  PAETS. 


PAET  I. 

An  An-  It  is  an  Ancient  Mariner, 

inermeet-  And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three  : 

gallants  6 “ thJ  long  gray  beard  an^  glitter- 

bidden  t°  in  2 eye, 

a wedding  * 7 

feast,  and  Now  wherefore  stopp’st  thou  me  ? 

detaineth 

one. 

The  Bridegroom’s  doors  are  opened 
wide, 

And  I am  next  of  kin ; 

The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set — 
May’st  hear  the  merry  din.” 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand : 
“ There  was  a ship,”  quoth  he. 
“Hold  off!  unhand  me,  gray-heard 
loon ! ” — 

Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he. 

The  Wed- He  holds  him  with  his  glittering 

ding- 

Guest  is  eye — 

bound  by  The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still; 

the  ofd  °f  ^stens  l^e  a three  years’  child : 

sea-faring  The  Mariner  hath  his  will, 
man,  and 
constrain- 
ed to  hear  The  Wedding-Guest  sat  on  a stone — 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 


“The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbor 
cleared ; 

Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill, 
Below  the  light-house  top. 


The  Mari-  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 
ner  tells  ~ „ , , . 

how  the  Out  ot  the  sea  came  he  ; 

southward And  he  8hone  bright,  and  on 


with  a 
good  wind 
and  fair 
weather, 
till  it 
reached 
the  Line. 


right 

Went  down  into  the  sea; 

Higher  and  higher  every  day, 
Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — ” 


the 


The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his 
breast, 

For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall — 
Red  as  a rose  is  she ; 

Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 

The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his 
breast, 

Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner : 


The  Wed- 
ding- 
Guest 
heareth 
the  bridal 
music ; 
but  the 
Mariner 
continu- 
ed his 
tale. 


“ And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  The  ship 

drawn  by 

he  a storm  to- 

Was  tyrannous  and  strong;  south the 

He  struck  with  his  o’ertaking  wings,  pol°- 
And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping 
prow — 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe, 

And  forward  bends  his  head — 

The  ship  drove  fast ; loud  roared  the 
blast, 

And  southward  aye  we  fled. 


And  now  there  came  both  mist  and 
snow, 

And  it  grew  wondrous  cold ; 

And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 


And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy  The  land 
tjv.  of  ice,  and 

Cliffs  of  fearful 

Did  send  a dismal  sheen ; where  no 

Nor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we^ 

r thing  was 

ken — to  be  seen. 

The  ice  was  all  between. 


The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 
The  ice  was  all  around ; 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared 
and  howled, 

Like  noises  in  a swound ! 


At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross — Til1  a 

. great  sea- 

Thorough  the  fog  it  came  ; bird,  caii- 

As  if  it  had  been  a Christian  soul,  batross,A1* 


We  hailed  it  in  God’s  name. 


came 
through 
the  snow- 

fog,  and  was  received  with  great  joy  and  hospitality. 


570 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


And  lo! 
the  Alba- 
tross 

proveth  a 
bird  of 
good 

omen,  and 
followeth 
the  ship  as 
it  return- 
ed north- 
ward 
through 
fog  and 
floating 
ice. 


The  An- 
cient Mar- 
iner in- 
hospitably 
killeth  the 
pious  bird 
of  good 
omen. 


His  ship- 
mates 
cry  out 
against 
the  An- 
cient Mar- 
iner, for 
killing  the 
bird  of 
good  luck. 


But  when 
the  fog 
cleared 
off,  they 
justify 
the  same, 
and  thus 
make 
them- 
selves ac- 
complices 
in  the 
crime. 


It  ate  the  food  it  ne’er  had  eat, 

And  ronnd  and  round  it  flew. 

The  ice  did  split  with  a thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steered  us  through ! 

Ajid  a good  south  wind  sprang  up 
behind ; 

The  Albatross  did  follow, 

And  every  day,  for  food  or  play, 
Came  to  the  mariners’  hollo ! 

In  mist  or  cloud,  on  mast  or  shroud, 
It  perched  for  vespers  nine ; 

Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog- 
smoke  white, 

Glimmered  the  white  moon-shine.” 

“ God  save  thee,  Ancient  Mariner ! 
From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee 
thus ! — 

Why  look’st  thou  so?” — “With  my 
cross-how 

I shot  the  Albatross.” 

PART  II. 


The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  The  fair 

breeze 


flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 

en  till  it  reached  the  Line. 


continues; 
the  ship 
enters  the 
Pacific 
Ocean, 
and  sails 
north- 
ward, ev- 


Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  The  ship 
■i  , , hath  been 

dropt  down — suddenly 

’T  was  sad  as  sad  could  be ; becalmed 

And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 

The  silence  of  the  sea. 


All  in  a hot  and  copper  sky 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 

Eight  up  above  the  mast  did  Stand, 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day, 

We  stuck — nor  breath  nor  motion; 
As  idle  as  a painted  ship 
Upon  a painted  ocean. 


“ The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right — 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 

Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 


Water,  water  everywhere, 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink ; 
Water,  water  everywhere, 

Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 


And  the 
Albatross 
begins  to 
be  aveng- 
ed. 


And  the  good  south  wind  still  blew 
behind ; 

But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow, 

Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariners’  hollo. 

And  I had  done  a hellish  thing, 

And  it  would  work  ’em  woe ; 

For  all  averred  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow : 

Ah  wretch ! said  they,  the  bird  to 
slay, 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 


The  very  deep  did  rot ; O Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be ! 

Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with 
legs 

Upon  the  slimy  sea ! 

About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout, 

The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 

The  water,  like  a witch’s  oils, 

Burnt  greeu,  and  blue  and  white. 


Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God’s  own 
head 

The  glorious  sun  uprist ; 

Then  all  averred  I had  killed  the  bird 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist : 

’T  was  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to 
slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 


And  some  in  dreams  assured  were  a Spirit 
Of  the  Spirit  that  plagued  us  so ; lowed 
Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  followed oneofthe 


us 


invisible 
inhabit- 

From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow.  ants  of  this 

planet, 

neither 

departed 

souls  nor  angels ; concerning  whom  the  learned  Jew,  Jo- 
sephus, and  the  Platonic  Constantinopolitan,  Michael 
Psellns,  may  bo  consulted.  They  are  very  numerous, 
and  there  is  no  climate  or  element  without  one  or  more. 


J 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


571 


And  every  tongue,  through  utter 
drought, 

Was  withered  at  the  root; 

We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


The  ship- 
mates, in 
their  sore 
distress, 
would  fain 
throw  the 
whole 
guilt  on 
the  An- 
cient Ma- 
riner: in 
sign 

whereof 
they  hang 
the  dead 
sea-bird 
round  his 
neck. 


Ah ! well  a-day ! what  evil  looks 
Had  I from  old  and  young ! 
Instead  of  the  cross  the  Albatross 
About  my  neck  was  hung. 


paet  m. 


There  passed  a weary  time.  Each 
throat 


Was  parched,  and  glazed  each  eye — 
A weary  time ! a weary  time ! 

How  glazed  each  weary  eye ! — 

The  An-  When,  looking  westward,  I beheld 

cientMa-  A ’ . 7 .,  , ’ 

riner  be-  A something  in  the  sky. 

holdeth  a 

sign  in  the 

element 

afar  off.  At  first  it  seemed  a little  speck, 

And  then  it  seemed  a mist; 

It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at 
last 


A certain  shape,  I wist — 


A speck,  a mist,  a shape,  I wist ! 
And  still  it  neared  and  neared ; 

As  if  it  dodged  a water-sprite, 

It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 


At  its 
nearer  ap- 
proach it 
3eemeth 
him  to  be 
a ship ; 
and  at  a 
dear  ran- 
som he 
freeth  his 
speech 
from  the 
bonds  of 
thirst. 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black 
lips  baked, 

We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail; 
Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we 
stood ! 

I bit  my  arm,  I sucked  the  blood, 
And  cried,  A sail ! a sail ! 


With  throats  unslaked,  with  black 
lips  baked, 

Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 
Gramercy!  they  for  joy  did  grin, 
A^flash  of  And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew 
in, 

As  they  were  drinking  all. 


See!  see!  I cried,  she  tacks  noAn<*hor- 
’ ror  fol- 

more! 

Hither  to  work  us  weal — 

Without  a breeze,  without  a tide, 

She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame ; 

The  day  was  well  nigh  done ; 

Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun, 

When  that  strange  shape  drove  sud- 
denly 

Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 


lows.  For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes 
onward 
without 
wind  or 
tide  ? 


And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  it  secin- 
with  bars,  but  the 

(Heaven’s  mother  send  us  grace !)  of  a ship. 
As  if  through  a dungeon-grate  he 
peered 

With  broad  and  burning  face. 


Alas ! thought  I — and  my  heart  beat 
loud — 

How  fast  she  nears  and  nears ! 

Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the 
sun, 

Like  restless  gossameres  ? 


Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  And  its 
the  sun  seen  as 

Did  peer,  as  through  a grate  ? the  face  of 

And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? tim^sun. 
Is  that  a death  ? and  are  there  two  ? 

Is  Death  that  woman’s  mate  ? man  and 

her  death- 
mate,  and 

no  other  on  board  the  skeleton  ship. 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were 
free, 

Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold ; ^Mike** 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy  : crew ! 

The  night-mare,  Life-in-Death,  was 
she, 

Who  thicks  man’s  blood  with  cold. 


The  naked  hulk  alongside  came,  Death  and 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice : Death 

‘ The  game  is  done ! I ’ve  won ! I ’ve  for 

won  ! ’ the  ship’s 

crew,  and 

Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice.  she  (the 

latter) 

winneth 

the  Ancient  Mariner. 


I 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


572 


The  sun’s  rim  dips,  the  stars  rush 


out, 


No  twi- 
light with- 
in the 
courts  of 
the  Sun. 


At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 

With  far-heard  whisper,  o’er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre  bark. 


Attheris-'W'e  listened,  and  looked  sideways 

ing  of  the  ’ J 

moon.  up ; 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a cup, 

My  life-blood  seemed  to  sip ; 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the 
night — 

The  steersman’s  face  by  his  lamp 
gleamed  white ; 

From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip — 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright 
star 

Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged 
another. 

moon, 

Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh, 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a ghastly 
pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

His  ship-  Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
dropdown  (And  I heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan !) 
dead.  With  heavy  thump,  a lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 


But  Life-  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 
begins  her  They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe ! 
thuAn-1  And  every  soul  it  passed  me  by, 
inert Mar’  T<ike  the  whizz  of  my  cross-t^w ! ” 


PART  IV. 


The  Wed-  “ I fear  thee,  Ancient  Mariner ! 
fealeth  eSt  I fear  thy  skinny  hand ! 

Spirit  is  And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and 
talking  to  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand. 


I fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown.” — 

But  the  “Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding- 
Ancient  B 

Mariner  Guest  I 

himof  his  This  body  dropt  not  down. 

bodily  life, 

and  proceedeth  to  relate  his  horrible  penance. 


Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone, 
Alone  on  a wide,  wide  sea! 
And  never  a saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 


The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

And  they  all  dead  did  lie ; 

And  a thousand  thousand  slimy  the^calm. 
things 

Lived  on — and  so  did  I. 


He  de- 
spiseth 
the  crea- 


I looked  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
And  drew  my  eyes  away ; 

I looked  upon  the  rotting  deck, 
And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 


And  en- 
vied that 
they 
should 
live,  and 
so  many 
lie  dead. 


I looked  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray; 
But  or  ever  a prayer  had  gusht 
A wicked  whisper  eame,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 
And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea  and  the  sea 
and  the  sky 

Lay  like  a load  on  my  weary  eye, 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 


The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  But  the 
i*  „ curse  liv- 

limbs — eth  for 

Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they ; eye  of  the 

The  look  with  which  they  looked  on  dead  men- 
me 

Had  never  passed  away. 


An  orphan’s  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A spirit  from  on  high ; 

But  O ! more  horrible  than  that 
Is  the  curse  in  a dead  man’s  eye ! 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I saw  that 
curse — 

And  yet  I could  not  die. 


The  moving  moon  went  up  the  sky,  In  his 

And  nowhere  did  abide;  andfixed 

Softly  she  was  going  up,  J£iSh 

And  a star  or  two  beside — towards 

the  jour- 
neying 

moon,  and  the  stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  on- 
ward ; and  every  where  the  blue  sky  belongs  to  them, 
and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country,  and 
their  own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced, 
as  lords  that  are  certainly  expected ; and  yet  there  is  a 
silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


57  S 


Her  beams  bemocked  the  sultry 
main, 

Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 

But  where  the  ship’s  huge  shadow 
lay 

The  charmed  water  burnt  alway, 

A still  and  awful  red. 


Bjrtbe  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
fee  moon  I watched  the  water-snakes ; 
ethbGod’8*  They  moved  in  tracks  of  shining 


creatures 
of  the 
great 
calm. 


white ; 

And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish 
light 

Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


"Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
I watched  their  rich  attire — 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black, 
They  coiled  and  swam;  and  every 
track 

Was  a flash  of  golden  fire. 


My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was 
cold, 

My  garments  all  were  dank ; 

Sure  I had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 


I moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs ; 
I was  so  light — almost 
I thought  that  I had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a blessed  ghost. 


And  soon  I heard  a roaring  wind — He  hear- 
_ , eth sounds 

It  did  not  come  anear ; and  seeth 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails,  sights  and 

That  were  so  thin  and  sere.  commo- 

tions in 
the  sky 
and  the 

The  upper  air  burst  into  life ; element. 

And  a hundred  fire-flags  sheen, 

To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ; 

And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out, 

The  wan  stars  danced  between. 


beauty  ^ happy  living  things ! no  tongue 
and  their  Their  beauty  might  declare ; 
happiness.  ^ SpriDg  0f  i0ve  gushed  from  my 

heart, 

He  Mess-  And  I blessed  them  unaware — 
in  his  Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
heart.  And  I blessed  them  unaware. 


And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more 
loud, 

And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 
And  the  rain  poured  down  from  one 
black  cloud — 

The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 


The  spell  The  selfsame  moment  I could  pray : 
begins  to  , . . „ 

break.  And  from  my  neck  so  free 

The  Albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 

Like  lead  into  the  sea. 


part  v. 


The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and 
still 

The  moon  was  at  its  side ; 

Like  waters  shot  from  some  high 
crag, 

The  lightning  fell  with  never  a jag — 
A river  steep  and  wide. 


O sleep  ! it  is  a gentle  thing, 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole ! 

To  Mary  Queen  the  praise  be  given ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  Hea- 
ven 

That  slid  into  my  soul. 


The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  The  bod- 
Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on ! ?re^ 

1 inspired/ 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  moon  and  the 

The  dead  men  gave  a groan.  moves  on ; 


By  grace  The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck, 
of  the  holy  . , ' . . , ’ 

Mother,  That  had  so  long  remained, 

cien^Mar- 1 dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with 


Iner  is  re- 
freshed 

with  rain.  And  when  I awoke,  it  rained. 


dew; 


They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all 
uprose — 

Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 

It  had  been  strange,  even  in  a dream, 

I To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 


674 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship 
moved  on ; 

Yet  never  a breeze  np  blew ; 

The  mariners  all  ’gan  work  the  ropes, 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 

They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless 
tools — 

We  were  a ghastly  crew. 

The  Body  of  my  brother’s  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee ; 

The  body  and  I pulled  at  one  rope, 
But  he  said  nought  to  me.” 


But  not 
by  the 
souls  of 
the  men, 
nor  by  de- 
mons of 
earth  or 
middle  air, 
but  by  a 
blessed 
troop  of 
angelic 
spirits, 
sent  down 
by  the  in- 
vocation 
of  the 
guardian 
saint. 


“I  fear  thee, Ancient  Mariner!  ” 

“Be  calm,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 

’Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in 
pain, 

Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

But  a troop  of  spirits  blest ; 

For  when  it  dawned  they  dropped 
their  arms, 

And  clustered  round  the  mast ; 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through 
their  mouths, 

And  from  their  bodies  passed. 


Till  noon  we  quietly  sailed  on, 

Yet  never  a breeze  did  breathe ; 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship, 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 


Under  the  keel,  nine  fathom  deep, 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow 
The  spirit  slid ; and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 

The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune, 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast, 
Had  fixed  her  to  the  ocean ; 

But  in  a minute  she  ’gan  stir, 

With  a short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards  and  forwards  half  her 
length, 

With  a short  uneasy  motion. 


The  lone- 
some spi- 
rit from 
the  south- 
pole  car- 
ries on  the 
ship  as  far 
as  the  Line 
in  obedi- 
ence to 
the  angel- 
ic troop ; 
but  still 
requireth 
vengeance 


Then  like  a pawing  horse  let  go, 
She  made  a sudden  bound — 

It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head, 
And  I fell  down  in  a swound. 


Around,  around  flew  each  sweet 
sound, 

Then  darted  to  the  sun ; 

Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again — 
Now  mixed,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes,  a-dropping  from  the  sky, 
I heard  the  sky-lark  sing ; 

Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are — 
How  they  seemed  to  fill  the  sea  and 
air 

With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now ’t  was  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a lonely  flute ; 

And  now  it  is  an  angel’s  song, 

That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 


How  long  in  that  same  fit  I lay 
I have  not  to  declare ; 

But  ere  my  living  life  returned 
I heard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned, 
Two  voices  in  the  air : 


The  polar 
spirit’s 
fellow  de- 
mons, the 
invisible 
inhabi- 
tants of 
the  ele- 
ment, take 
part  in  his 


‘Is  it  he?'  quoth  one,  ‘Is  this  the 
man? 

By  him  who  died  on  cross, 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  Albatross ! 


wrong; 
and  two  of 
them  re- 
late, one 
to  the 
other,  that 
penance, 
long  and 
heavy  for 
the  An- 


cient Mar- 
iner, hath 


The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself  been  ac* 


In  the  laud  of  mist  and  snow. 
He  loved  the 
man 


corded  to 
the  polar 

bird  that  loved  the  returnTth° 
southward. 


Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.’ 


It  ceased ; yet  still  the  sails  made  on 
A pleasant  noise  till  noon — 

A noise  like  of  a hidden  brook 
In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 
Singeth  a quiet  tune. 


The  other  was  a softer  voice, 

As  soft  as  honey-dew : 

Quoth  he,  ‘The  man  hath  penance 
done, 

And  penance  more  will  do.’ 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


575 


PART  VI. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

“ ‘ But  tell  me,  tell  me  ! speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 

What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so 
fast? 

What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? ’ 

SECOND  VOICE. 

“ ‘ Still  as  a slave  before  his  lord, 
The  ocean  hath  no  blast ; 

His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 


And  now  this  spell  was  snapt ; once  ^n®“jrse 
more  expiated. 

I viewed  the  ocean  green, 

And  looked  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 
Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one  that  on  a lonesome  road 
Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread, 

And,  having  once  turned  round, 
walks  on, 

And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 

Because  he  knows  a frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a wind  on 


If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go ; 
For  she  guides  him  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see ! how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him.5 


me, 

Nor  sound  nor  motion  made ; 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 


FIRST  VOICE. 

Th^Mari-  “ ‘But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 

been  cast  Without  or  wave  or  wind?5 
into  a 
trance ; for 

the  an-  SECOND  VOICE, 

gelic  pow- 
er causeth  “ ‘The  air  is  cut  away  before, 

todrive61  And  closes  from  behind. 

northward 

faster  than 

human  Fly,  brother,  fly!  more  high,  more 
life  could  7 

endure.  high ! 

Or  we  shall  be  belated ; 

For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 

When  the  Mariner’s  trance  is  abated.’ 


The  su- 
pernatural 
motion  is 
retarded ; 
the  Mar- 
iner 
awakes, 
and  his 
penance 
Degins 
anew. 


I woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 
As  in  a gentle  weather ; 

’T  was  night,  calm  night — the  moon 
was  high ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck, 

For  a charnel-dungeon  fitter ; 

All  fixed  on  me  their  stony  eyes, 
That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 


It  raised  my  hair,  it  fanned  my  cheek, 
Like  a meadow-gale  of  Spring — 

It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears, 
Yet  it  felt  like  a welcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 

Yet  she  sailed  softly  too ; 

Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 


Oh!  dream  of  joy!  is  this  indeed 
The  light-house  top  I see  ? 

Is  this  the  hill  ? is  this  the  kirk  ? 
Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 


And  the 

Ancient 

Mariner 

beholdeth 

his  native 

country. 


We  drifted  o’er  the  harbor-bar, 
And  I with  sobs  did  pray — 

O let  me  be  awake,  my  God ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 


The  harbor-bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn ! 

And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 


The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they 
died, 

Had  never  passed  away ; 

I could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no 
less 

That  stands  above  the  rock ; 

The  moonlight  steeped  in  silentness 
The  steady  weathercock. 


676 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


The  angel 
ic  spirits 
leave  the 
dead  bod- 
ies, 

And  ap- 
pear in 
their  own 
forms  of 
light. 


The  Her- 
mit of  the 
wood 


And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent 
light 

Till,  rising  from  the  same, 

-Full  many  shapes,  that  shadows 
were, 

In  crimson  colors  came. 


He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and 
eve — 

He  hath  a cushion  plump ; 

It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak-stump. 


A little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were ; 

I turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

O Christ ! what  saw  I there ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 
And,  by  the  holy  rood ! 

A man  all  light,  a seraph-man, 

On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his 
hand — 

It  was  a heavenly  sight ! 

They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a lovely  light ; 


The  skiff-boat  neared — I heard  them 
talk: 

‘ Why,  this  is  strange,  I trow ! 

Where  are  those  lights,  so  many  and 
fair, 

That  signal  made  but  now  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Strange,  by  my  faith ! ’ the  hermit  Approach- 
. , ‘ eth  the 

Said — ship  with 

‘And  they  answered  not  our  cheer ! wonder* 

The  planks  looked  warped ! and  see 
those  sails, 

How  thin  they  are  and  sere ! 

I never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 

Unless  perchance  it  were 


This  seraph-band,  each  waved  his 
hand; 

No  voice  did  they  impart — 

No  voice ; but  O ! the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I heard  the  dash  of  oars, 

I heard  the  pilot’s  cheer ; 

My  head  was  turned  perforce  away, 
And  I saw  a boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot’s  boy, 

I heard  them  coming  fast ; 

Dear  Lord  in  Heaven!  it  was  a joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I saw  a third — I heard  his  voice ; 

It  is  the  hermit  good ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 
That  he  makes  in  the  wood ; 

He’ll  shrieve  my  soul — he’ll  wash 
away 

The  Albatross’s  blood. 

PAET  VII. 

This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood 
Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears ! 
He  loves  to  talk  with  marineres 
That  come  from  a far  countree. 


Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
My  forest-brook  along, 

When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with 
snow, 

And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf 
below, 

That  eats  the  she-wolf ’s  young.’ 

‘ Dear  Lord ! it  hath  a fiendish  look,’ 

The  pilot  made  reply — 

‘I  am  a-feared’ — ‘Push  on,  push  on ! ’ 

Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 

But  I nor  spake  nor  stirred ; 

The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship, 

And  straight  a sound  was  heard : 

Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on,  The  ship 
Still  louder  and  more  dread ; sinIS.I * * * * * 7 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay — 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  The  An- 

cient  Mar- 

sound,  iner  is 

Which  sky  and  ocean  smote,  th^piiot’s 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days  boat- 
drowned 


My  body  lay  afloat ; 

But,  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I found 
Within  the  pilot’s  boat. 


RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


511 


Upon  the  whirl  where  sank  the  ship 
The  boat  span  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a fit ; 

The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 

And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 

I took  the  oars ; the  pilot’s  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laughed  loud  and  long ; and  all  the 
while 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro : 

‘Ha!  ha!’  quoth  he,  ‘full  plain  I 
see, 

The  devil  knows  how  to  row.’ 


What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that 
door! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there ; 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bride-maids  singing  are ; 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

O Wedding-Guest!  this  soul  hath 
been 

Alone  on  a wide,  wide  sea — 

So  lonely ’t  was,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

0 sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 

’T  is  sweeter  far  to  me, 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 
With  a goodly  company ! — 


And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree, 

I stood  on  the  firm  land ! 

The  hermit  stepped  forth  from  the 
boat, 

And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 


The  An- 
cient Mar- 
iner ear- 
nestly en- 
treateth 
the  Her- 
mit to 
Bhrieve 
him;  and 
the  pen- 
ance of  life 
falls  on 
him. 


‘0  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy 
man ! ’ — 

The  hermit  crossed  his  brow : 

‘ Say  quick,’  quoth  he,  ‘ I bid  thee 
say — 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ? ’ 


Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was 


wrenched 


With  a woful  agony, 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale — 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 


And  ever  Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
and  anon 

through-  That  agony  returns ; 
toeUfe'1"  And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told 

constrain-  This  heart  within  me  burns, 
eth  him 
to  travel 

to  land.  I pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 
I have  strange  power  of  speech ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I see 
I know  the  man  that  must  hear  me — 
To  him  my  tale  I teach. 

37 


To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray, 

While  each  to  his  great  Father 
bends — 

Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving 
friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 


Farewell!  farewell!  but  this  I tell 
To  thee,  thou  Wedding-Guest! 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all.” 


And  to 
teach  by 
his  own 
example, 
love,  and 
reverence 
to  all 
things, 
that  God 
made  and 
loveth. 


The  Mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar, 

Is  gone.  And  now  the  Wedding- 
Guest 

Turned  from  the  bridegroom’s  door. 


He  went  like  one  that  hath  been 
stunned, 

And  is  of  sense  forlorn ; 

A sadder  and  a wiser  man 
He  rose  the  morrow  morn. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


578 


KUBLA  KHAN. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A stately  pleasure-dome  decree, 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran, 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
Down  to  a sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round ; 
And  there  were  gardens,  bright  with  sinuous 
rills, 

Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-bearing 
tree; 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  0!  that  deep  romantic  chasm,  which 
slanted 

Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a cedarn  cover! 
A savage  place ! as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e’er  beneath  a waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover ! 

And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil 
seething, 

As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were 
breathing, 

A mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced, 
Amid  whose  swift,  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher’s  flail ; 
And  ’mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and 
ever 

It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 

Five  miles,  meandering  with  a mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale,  the  sacred  river 
ran — 

Then  reached  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a lifeless  ocean : 

And  ’mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war. 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 
Floated  midway  on  the  waves, 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 
From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 

It  was  a miracle  of  rare  device — 

A sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice ! 
A damsel  with  a dulcimer 
In  a vision  once  I saw ; 


It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  played, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a deep  delight  ’twould  win  me 
That,  with  music  loud  and  long, 

I would  build  that  dome  in  air — 

That  sunny  dome ! those  caves  of  ice ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware ! beware 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 
Weave  a circle  round  him  thrice, 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

Samvel  Tatloe  Coleridge. 


THE  RAVEN. 

Once,  upon  a midnight  dreary, 
While  I pondered,  weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a quaint  and  curious 
Volume  of  forgotten  lore — 

While  I nodded,  nearly  napping, 
Suddenly  there  came  a tapping, 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping, 
Rapping  at  my  chamber  door : 

“ ’T  is  some  visitor,”  I muttered, 

“ Tapping  at  my  chamber  door — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more.” 

Ah,  distinctly  I remember ! 

It  was  in  the  bleak  December, 

And  each  separate  dying  ember 
Wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor. 
Eagerly  I wished  the  morrow ; 
Vainly  I had  tried  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — 
Sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 

For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  for  evermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain 
Rustling  of  each  purple  curtain 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic 
Terrors  never  felt  before ; 


THE  RAVEN. 


579 


So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating 
Of  my  heart,  I stood  repeating 
“ ’T  is  some  visitor  entreating 
Entrance  at  my  chamber  door — 

Some  late  visitor  entreating 
Entrance  at  my  chamber  door ; — 

This  it  is,  and  nothing  more.” 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger ; 
Hesitating  then  no  longer, 

“Sir,”  said  I,  “or  Madam,  truly 
Your  forgiveness  I implore; 

But  the  fact  is  I was  napping, 

And  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 

And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping, 
Tapping  at  my  chamber  door, 

That  I scarce  was  sure  I heard  you,” — 
Here  I opened  wide  the  door : 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more ! 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering, 

Long  I stood  there  wondering,  fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortal 
Ever  dared  to  dream  before ; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken, 

And  the  darkness  gave  no  token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken 
Was  the  whispered  word,  “Lenoro ! ” 
This  I whispered,  and  an  echo 
Murmured  back  the  word  “ Lenore ! ” — 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  into  the  chamber  turning, 

All  my  soul  within  me  burning, 

Soon  I heard  again  a tapping 
Somewhat  louder  than  before : 

“ Surely,”  said  I,  “ surely  that  is 
Something  at  my  window  lattice ; 

Let  me  see,  then,  what  thereat  is, 

And  this  mystery  explore — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a moment, 

And  this  mystery  explore ; — 

’T  is  the  wind,  and  nothing  more ! ” 

Open  here  I flung  the  shutter, 

When,  with  many  a flirt  and  flutter, 

In  there  stepped  a stately  raven 
Of  the  saintly  days  of  yore ; 


Hot  the  least  obeisance  made  he ; 

Hot  an  instant  stopped  or  stayed  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady, 

Perched  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched  upon  a bust  of  Pallas 
Just  above  my  chamber  door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling 
My  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 

By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum 
Of  the  countenance  it  wore  ; 

“ Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven, 
Thou,”  I said,  “ art  sure  no  craven — 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven, 
Wandering  from  the  Hightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  namo  is 
On  the  Hight’s  Plutonian  shore ! ” 
Quoth  the  raven  “Hevermore.” 

Much  I marvelled  this  ungainly 
Fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly — 
Though  its  answer  little  meaningv 
Little  relevancy  bore ; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing 
That  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing 
Bird  above  his  chamber  door — 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured 
Bust  above  his  chamber  door, 

With  such  name  as  “ Hevermore.” 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely 
On  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in 
That  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Hothing  farther  then  he  uttered — 

Hot  a feather  then  he  fluttered — 

Till  I scarcely  more  than  muttered 
“ Other  friends  have  flown  before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me, 

As  my  hopes  have  flown  before.” 
Then  the  bird  said  “Hevermore.” 

Startled  at  the  stillness  broken 
By  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 

“Doubtless,”  said  I,  “ what  it  utters 
Is  its  only  stock  and  store — 


580 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Caught  from  some  unhappy  master, 
Whom  unmerciful  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster, 

Till  his  songs  one  burden  bore — 

Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  the 
Melancholy  burden  bore 
Of  ‘ Nevermore,’ — of  ‘ Nevermore.’  ” 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling 
All  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 

Straight  I wheeled  a cushioned  seat  in 
Front  of  bird,  and  bust  and  door; 
Then  upon  the  velvet  sinking, 

I betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking 
What  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly, 

Gaunt  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  “Nevermore.” 

This  I sat  engaged  in  guessing, 

But  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now 
Burned  into  my  bosom’s  core ; 

This,  and  more,  I sat  divining, 

With  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion’s  velvet  lining 
That  the  lamplight  gloated  o’er ; 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining, 

With  the  lamplight  gloating  o’er, 

She  shall  press — ah,  never  more ! 

Then,  methought,  the  air  grew  denser, 
Perfumed  from  an  unseen  censer 
Swung  by  angels,  whose  faint  foot-falls 
Tinkjpd  on  the  tufted  floor. 
“Wretch!”  I cried,  “thy  God  hath  lent 
thee, 

By  these  angels  he  hath  sent  thee, 
Kespite — respite  and  nepenthe 
From  thy  memories  of  Lenore ! 

Quaff,  O quaff  this  kind  nepenthe, 

And  forget  this  lost  Lenore ! ” 

Quoth  the  raven  “Nevermore.” 


Tempest  tossed  thee  here  ashore — 
Desolate  yet  all  undaunted, 

On  this  desert  land  enchanted, 

On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — 

Tell  me  truly,  I implore — 

Is  there — is  there  halm  in  Gilead  ? 

Tell  me — tell  me,  I implore ! ” 

Quoth  the  raven  “ Nevermore.” 

“ Prophet ! ” said  I,  “ thing  of  evil — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 

By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — 
By  that  God  we  both  adore — 

Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden 
If,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 

It  shall  clasp  a sainted  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a rare  and  radiant  maiden 
Whom  the  angels  name  Lenore.” 
Quoth  the  raven  “ Nevermore.”  0 

“ Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting, 

Bird  or  fiend ! ” I shrieked,  upstarting— 
“ Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest 
And  the  Night’s  Plutonian  shore ! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a token 
Of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 

Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — 

Quit  the  bust  above  my  door ! 

Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart, 

And  take  thy  form  from  off  my  door ! ” 
Quoth  the  raven  “Nevermore.” 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting, 

Still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas 
Just  above  my  chamber  door; 

And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming 
Of  a demon  that  is  dreaming, 

And  the  lamplight,  o’er  him  streaming 
Throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor ; 

And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow 
That  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore ! 

Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


“Prophet!  ” said  I,  “thing  of  evil! — 
Prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether 


THE  DJINNS. 


581 


THE  DJINNS. 


Town,  tower, 
Shore,  deep, 
Where  lower 
Cliffs  steep ; 
Waves  gray 
Where  play 
Winds  gay — 
All  asleep. 


Hark ! a sound, 
Far  and  slight, 
Breathes  around 
On  the  night — 
High  and  higher, 
Nigh  and  nigher, 
Like  a fire 
Roaring  bright. 


Now  on  it  is  sweeping 
With  rattling  beat, 

Like  dwarf  imp  leaping 
In  gallop  fleet ; 

He  flies,  he  prances, 

In  frolic  fancies — 

On  wave-crest  dances 
With  pattering  feet. 


’T  is  the  Dj inns’  wild-streaming  swarm 
Whistling  in  their  tempest-flight ; 

Snap  the  tall  yews  ’neath  the  storm, 
Like  a pine-flame  crackling  bright ; 
Swift  and  heavy,  low,  their  crowd 
Through  the  heavens  rushing  loud  !— 
Like  a lurid  thunder-cloud 
With  its  bolt  of  fiery  night ! 

Ha ! they  are  on  us,  close  without ! 

Shut  tight  the  shelter  where  we  lie ! 

With  hideous  din  the  monster  rout, 
Dragon  and  vampire,  fill  the  sky ! 

The  loosened  rafter  overhead 
Trembles  and  bends  like  quivering  reed ; 
Shakes  the  old  door  with  shuddering  dread. 
As  from  its  rusty  hinge ’t  would  fly ! 


Wild  cries  of  hell!  voices  that  howl  and 
shriek ! 

The  horrid  swarm,  before  the  tempest  tossed — 

O Heaven! — descends  my  lowly  roof  to 
seek ; 

Bends  the  strong  wall  beneath  the  furious 
host; 

Totters  the  house,  as  though — like  dry-  leaf 
shorn 

From  autumn  bough  and  on  the  mad  blast 
borne — 

Up  from  its  deep  foundations  it  were  torn 

To  join  the  stormy  whirl.  Ah!  all  is  lost! 


Hark,  the  rising  swell, 

With  each  nearer  burst ! 

Like  the  toll  of  bell 
Of  a convent  cursed ; 

Like  the  billowy  roar 
On  a storm-lashed  shore — 
Now  hushed,  now  once  more 
Maddening  to  its  worst. 


O Prophet ! if  thy  hand  but  now 
Save  from  these  foul  and  hellish  things, 

A pilgrim  at  thy  shrine  I ’ll  bow, 

Laden  with  pious  offerings. 

Bid  their  hot  breath  its  fiery  rain 
Stream  on  my  faithful  door  in  vain, 

Vainly  upon  my  blackened  pane 
Grate  the  fierce  claws  of  their  dark  wings ! 


0 God ! the  deadly  sound 
Of  the  Djinns’  fearful  cry ! 

Quick,  ’neath  the  spiral  round 
Of  the  deep  staircase,  fly ! 

See,  see  our  lamplight  fade ! 

And  of  the  balustrade 
Mounts,  mounts  the  circling  shade 
Up  to  the  ceiling  high ! 


They  have  passed ! — and  their  wild  legion 
Cease  to  thunder  at  my  door ; 

Fleeting  through  night’s  rayless  region, 
Hither  they  return  no  more. 

Clanking  chains  and  sounds  of  woe 
Fill  the  forests  as  they  go ; 

And  the  tall  oaks  cower  low, 

Bent  their  flaming  flight  before. 


582 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


On ! on ! the  storm  of  wings 
Bears  far  the  fiery  fear, 

Till  scarce  the  breeze  now  brings 
Dim  murmurings  to  the  ear ; 

Like  locusts’  humming  hail, 

Or  thrash  of  tiny  flail 
Plied  by  the  pattering  hail 
On  some  old  roof-tree  near. 


Fainter  now  are  borne 
Fitful  mutterings  still ; 
As,  when  Arab  horn 
Swells  its  magic  peal, 
Shoreward  o’er  the  deep 
Fairy  voices  sweep, 

And  the  infant’s  sleep 
Golden  visions  fill. 

Each  deadly  Djinn, 
Dark  child  of  fright, 
Of  death  and  sin, 
Speeds  the  wild  flight. 


Hark,  the  dull  moan ! 
Like  the  deep  tone 
Of  ocean’s  groan, 
Afar,  by  night ! 


More  and  more 
Fades  it  now, 
As  on  shore 
Ripples  flow — 
As  the  plaint, 
Far  and  faint, 
Of  a saint, 
Murmured  low. 


Hark!  hist! 

Around 
I list! 

The  bounds 
Of  space 
All  trace 
Efface 
Of  sound. 

Yictoe  Hugo  (French). 
Translation  of  John  L.  O'Sullivan. 


PART  IX. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet ; 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers,  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  Narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 

Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream’s  recess 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilion^  of  tender  green  ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 

It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose  like  a nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare ; 

And  the  wand-like  lily  which  lifted  up, 

As  a Mcenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup, 

Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 

Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint, and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows  ; 

And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

Shelley. 


■ 


. 

*r 


- 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


“ALL  EARTHLY  JOY  RETURNS  IN 
PAIN.” 

Of  Lentern  in  the  first  morning. 

Early  as  did  the  day  np-spring, 

Thus  sang  ane  bird  with  voice  up-plain : 
All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain. 

0 man ! have  mind  that  thou  must  pass ; 
Remember  that  thou  art  but  ass,  [ashes,] 
And  shall  to  dust  return  again : 

All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain. 

Have  mind  that  age  aye  follows  youth ; 
Death  follows  life  with  gaping  mouth, 
Devouring  fruit  and  flowering  grain  • 

All  earthly,  joy  returns  in  pain. 

Came  never  yet  May  so  fresh  and  green, 
But  January  came  as  wud  and  keen ; 

Was  never  such  drout  but  ance  came  rain : 
All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain. 

Since  earthly  joy  abydis  never, 

Work  for  the  joy  that  lasts  for  ever ; 

For  other  joy  is  all  but  vain : 

All  earthly  joy  returns  in  pain. 

William  Dunbar. 


THE  LORDS  OF  THULE. 

The  Lords  of  Thule  it  did  not  please 
That  Willegis  their  bishop  was ; 

For  he  was  a wagoner’s  son. 

And  they  drew,  to  do  him  scorn, 

Wheels  of  chalk  upon  the  wall ; 

He  found  them  in  chamber,  found  them  in 
hall. 

But  the  pious  Willegis 

Could  not  be  moved  to  bitterness ; 

Seeing  the  wheels  upon  the  wall, 

He  bade  his  servants  a painter  call ; 

And  said, — “ My  friend,  paint  now  for  me, 
On  every  wall,  that  I may  see, 

A wheel  of  white  in  a field  of  red ; 
Underneath,  in  letters  plain  to  be  read — 

1 Willegis,  bishop  now  by  name, 

Forget  not  whence  you  came ! ’ ” 

The  Lords  of  Thule  were  full  of  shame— 
They  wiped  away  their  words  of  blame ; 

For  they  saw  that  scorn  and  jeer 
Cannot  wound  the  wise  man’s  ear. 

And  all  the  bishops  that  after  him  came 
Quartered  the  wheel  with  their  arms  of  fame. 
Thus  came  to  pious  Willegis 
Glory  out  of  bitterness. 

Anonymous.  (German.) 

Anonymous  translation. 


586 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 

By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 

Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 

Fonl  of  month  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 

Jeered  at  him  the  serving  girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master ; 

And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury’s  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet  with  calm  and  stately  mien 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 
Came  he  slowly  riding ; 

And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  hitter  word, 
Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a troop  with  broadswords  swing- 
ing, 

Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose,  and  free,  and  froward  : 

Quoth  the  foremost,  “ Ride  him  down ! 
Push  him!  prick  him!  Through  the 
town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward ! ” 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a sudden  voice  and  loud : 

“ Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! ” 

And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a comrade,  battle-tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly ; 

Who,  with  ready  weapon  bare, 

Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud : “ God  save  us ! 

Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle-deep  in  Lutzen’s  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ? ” 

“ Nay,  I do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,”  said  Ury’s  lord ; 

“ Put  it  up  I pray  thee : 

Passive  to  His  holy  will, 

Trust  I in  my  master  still, 

Even  though  he  slay  me.” 


“Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 

Proved  on  many  a field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed.” 

Marvelled  much  that  henchman  hold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

“ Woe ’s  the  day,”  he  sadly  said, 

With  a slowly-shaking  head, 

And  a look  of  pity ; 

“ Ury’s  honest  lord  reviled, 

Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city ! 

“Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 

As  we  charged  on  Tilly’s  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 

Smiting  through  their  midst,  we  ’ll  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 
To  these  boyish  prancers ! ” 

“ Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend — 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end : ” 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 

“ Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 
Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry? 

“ Give  me  joy  that  in  His  name 
I can  hear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer ; 

While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 

Shall  I answer  wrong  with  wrong, 
Scoffing  with  the  scoffer  ? 

“ Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all — 

Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me — 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen 

With  hared  heads  to  meet  me ; 

“ When  each  good  wife,  o’er  and  o’er, 
Blessed  me  as  I passed  her  door ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 

Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 
From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 


HARMOSAN.  587 

“ Hard  to  feel  the  stranger’s  scoff, 

Hard  the  old  friends’  falling  off, 

HARMOSAN. 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving; 

But  the  Lord  his  own  rewards, 

Now  the  third  and  fatal  conflict  for  the  Per- 

And his  love  with  theirs  accords 

sian  throne  was  done, 

Warm,  and  fresh,  and  living. 

And  the  Moslem’s  fiery  valor  had  the  crown- 
ing victory  won. 

« Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 

Harmosan,  the  last  and  boldest  the  invader 

Faith  beholds  a feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking ; 

to  defy, 

Knowing  God’s  own  time  is  best, 

Captive,  overborne  by  numbers,  they  were 

In  a patient  hope  I rest 

bringing  forth  to  die. 

For  the  full  day-breaking ! ” 

Then  exclaimed  that  noble  captive:  “Lo,  I 
perish  in  my  thirst ; 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 

Give  me  but  one  drink  of  water,  and  let  then 

Turning  slow  his  horse’s  head 

arrive  the  worst ! ” 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 

Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard 

In  his  hand  he  took  the  goblet ; but  a while 

Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

the  draught  forbore, 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen ! 

Seeming  doubtfully  the  purpose  of  the  foe- 
men  to  explore. 

Hot  in  vain,  confessor  old, 

Well  might  then  have  paused  the  bravest — 

Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

for,  around  him,  angry  foes 

Of  thy  day  of  trial  I 

With  a hedge  of  naked  weapons  did  that 

Every  age  on  him,  who  strays 

lonely  man  enclose. 

From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways, 

Pours  its  seven-fold  vial. 

“ But  what  fearest  thou  ? ” cried  the  Caliph ; 
“ is  it,  friend,  a secret  blow  ? 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 

Fear  it  not ! our  gallant  Moslems  no  such 

Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

treacherous  dealing  know. 

O’er  the  rabble’s  laughter ; 

And,  while  Hatred’s  fagots  burn, 

u Thou  may’st  quench  thy  thirst  securely,  for 

Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

thou  shalt  not  die  before 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Thou  hast  drunk  that  cup  of  water — this  re- 
prieve is  thine — no  more ! ” 

Knowing  this — that  never  yet 

Quick  the  Satrap  dashed  the  goblet  down  to 

Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

earth  with  ready  hand, 

In  the  world’s  wide  fallow ; 

And  the  liquid  sunk  for  ever,  lost  amid  the 

After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 

burning  sand. 

After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

“ Thou  hast  said  that  mine  my  life  is,  till  the 
water  of  that  cup 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  seer, 

I have  drained : then  bid  thy  servants  that 

Must  the  moral  pioneer 

spilled  water  gather  up ! ” 

From  the  future  borrow — 

Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 

For  a moment  stood  the  Caliph  as  by  doubt- 

And, on  midnight’s  sky  of  rain, 

ful  passions  stirred — 

Paint  the  golden  morrow ! 

Then  exclaimed,  “ For  ever  sacred  must  re- 

John Greenleaf  Whittier. 

main  a monarch’s  word. 

588 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


“Bring  another  cup,  and  straightway  to  the 
noble  Persian  give : 

Drink,  I said  before,  and  perish — now  I bid 
thee  drink  and  live ! ” 

Eichard  Cheneyix  Trexch. 


BALDER. 

Baldeb,  the  white  Sun-god,  has  departed! 

Beautiful  as  Summer  dawn  was  he ; 

Loved  of  gods  and  men — the  royal-hearted 
Balder,  the  white  Sun-god,  has  departed — 
Has  gone  home  where  all  the  brave  ones  be. 

For  the  tears  of  the  imperial  mother, 

For  a universe  that  weeps  and  prays, 

Rides  Hermoder  forth  to  seek  his  brother — 
Rides  for  love  of  that  distressful  mother. 
Through  lead-colored  glens  and  cross-blue 
ways. 

'With  the  howling  wind  and  raving  torrent, 
Nine  days  rode  he,  deep  and  deeper  down — 
Reached  the  vast  death-kingdom,  rough  and 
horrent, 

Reached  the  lonely  bridge  that  spans  the  tor- 
rent 

Of  the  moaning  river  by  Hell-town. 

There  he  found  the  ancient  portress  stand- 
ing— 

Vexer  of  the  mind  and  of  the  heart: 
“Balder  came  this  way,”  to  his  demanding 
Cried  aloud  that  ancient  portress,  standing — 
“Balder  came,  but  Balder  did  depart; 

“ Here  he  could  not  dwell.  He  is  down  yon- 
der— 

Northward,  further,  in  the  death-realm  he.” 
Rode  Hermoder  on  in  silent  wonder — 

Hane  of  Gold  fled  fast  and  rushed  down  yon- 
der! 

Brave  and  good  must  young  Hermoder  be. 

For  he  leaps  sheer  over  Hela’s  portal, 

Drops  into  the  huge  abyss  below. 

There  he  saw  the  beautiful  immortal — 

Saw  him,  Balder,  under  Hela’s  portal — 

Saw  him,  and  forgot  his  nain  and  woe. 


“ O,  my  Balder ! have  I,  have  I found  thee — 
Balder,  beautiful  as  Summer  morn  ? 

0,  my  Sun-god ! hearts  of  heroes  crowned 
thee 

For  their  king ; they  lost,  but  now  have  found 
thee; 

Gods  and  men  shall  not  be  left  forlorn. 

“Balder!  brother!  the  Divine  has  vanished — 
The  eternal  splendors  all  have  fled ; 

Truth  and  Love  and  Nobleness  are  banished 
The  Heroic  and  Divine  have  vanished ; 
Nature  has  no  god,  and  Earth  lies  dead. 

“ Come  thou  back,  my  Balder — king  and 
brother ! 

Teach  the  hearts  of  men  to  love  the  gods ! 
Come  thou  back,  and  comfort  our  great 
mother — 

Come  with  truth  and  bravery,  Balder,  bro- 
ther— 

Bring  the  Godlike  back  to  men’s  abodes ! ” 

But  the  Nornas  let  him  pray  unheeded — 
Balder  never  was  to  come  again. 

Vainly,  vainly  young  Hermoder  pleaded — 
Balder  never  was  to  come.  Unheeded, 
Young  Hermoder  wept  and  prayed  in  vain. 

Oh,  the  trueness  of  this  ancient  story ! 

Even  now  it  is,  as  it  was  then. 

Earth  hath  lost  a portion  of  her  glory ; 

And  like  Balder,  in  the  ancient  story, 

Never  comes  the  Beautiful  again. 

Still  the  young  Hermoder  journeys  bravely, 
Through  lead-colored  glens  and  cross-blue 
ways; 

Still  he  calls  his  brother,  pleading  gravely — 
Still  to  the  death-kingdom  ventures  bravely — 
Calmly  to  the  eternal  Terror  prays. 

But  the  Fates  relent  not;  strong  Endeavor, 
Courage,  noble  Feeling,  are  in  vain ; 

For  the  Beautiful  has  gone  for  ever. 

Vain  are  Courage,  Genius,  strong  Endeavor — 
Never  comes  the  Beautiful  again. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  MUMMY  AT  BELZONI’S  EXHIBITION. 


Do  you  think  I counsel  weak  despairing? 

No ! like  young  Hermoder  I would  ride ; 
With  an  humble,  yet  a gallant  daring, 

I would  leap  unquailing,  undespairing, 

Over  the  huge  precipice’s  side. 

Dead  and  gone  is  the  old  world’s  Ideal, 

The  old  arts  and  old  religion  fled ; 

But  I gladly  live  amid  the  Real, 

And  I seek  a worthier  Ideal. 

Courage,  brothers,  God  is  overhead ! 

Anonymous. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  MUMMY  AT  BEL- 
ZONI’S  EXHIBITION. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about,  (how  strange  a 
story !) 

In  Thebes’  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnomium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  Time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak!  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted 
dummy ; 

Thou  hast  a tongue — come — let  us  hear  its 
tune; 

Thou  ’rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground, 
Mummy ! 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon — 

Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  crea- 
tures, 

But  with  thy  bones,  and  flesh,  and  limbs,  and 
features. 

Tell  us — for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx’s 
fame? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 
Of  either  Pyramid  that  hears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey’s  Pillar  really  a misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Ho- 
mer ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a Mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  secrets  of  thy  trade — 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 
In  Meinnon’s  statue,  which  at  sunrise 
played  ? 


586 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a Priest — if  so,  my  strug- 
gles 

Are  vain,  for  Priestcraft  never  owns  its  jug- 
gles. 

Perhaps  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to 
glass ; 

Or  dropped  a half-penny  in  Homer’s  hat ; 

Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon’s  own  invitation, 

A torch  at  the  great  Temple’s  dedication. 

I need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Roman  soldier  mauled  and  knuck- 
led; 

For  thou  wert  dead,  and  buried,  and  em- 
balmed, 

Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Thou  could’st  develop — if  that  withered 
tongue 

Might  tell  us  what  those  sightless  orbs  have 
seen — 

How  the  world  looked  when  it  was  fresh  and 
young, 

And  the  great  Deluge  still  had  left  it  green ; 

Or  was  it  then  so  old  that  History’s  pages 

Contained  no  record  of  its  early  ages  ? 

Still  silent!  incommunicative  elf! 

Art  sworn  to  secrecy  ? then  keep  thy  vows ; 

But  prythee  tell  us  something  of  thyself— 
Reveal  the  secrets  of  thy  prison-house ; 

Since  in  the  world  of  spirits  thou  hast  slum- 
bered— 

What  hast  thou  seen — what  strange  adven- 
tures numbered  ? 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended 
We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange 
mutations ; 

The  Roman  empire  has  begun  and  ended — 
New  worlds  have  risen — we  have  lost  old 
nations ; 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been 
humbled, 

While  not  a fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crum- 
bled. 


590 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o’er  thy  head, 
"When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cam- 
byses, 

Marched  armies  o’er  thy  tomb  with  thunder- 
ing tread — 

O’erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis ; 

And  shook  the  pyramids  with  fear  and  won- 
der, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb’s  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 
The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold : 

A heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern 
breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusty  cheek  have 
rolled ; 

Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed 
that  face  ? 

What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and 
race? 

Statue  of  flesh — Immortal  of  the  dead ! 
Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 

Posthumous  man — who  quitt’st  thy  narrow 
bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  pres- 
ence! 

Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judgment 
morning, 

When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with 
its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 
If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  for  ever  ? 

O ! let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 
In  living  virtue — that  wjien  both  must  sever, 

Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 

The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom ! 

Hobace  Smith. 


THE  TWO  OCEANS. 

Two  seas,  amid  the  night, 

In  the  moonshine  roll  and  sparkle — 
Now  spread  in  the  silver  light, 

Now  sadden,  and  wail,  and  darkle ; 
The  one  has  a billowy  motion, 

And  from  land  to  land  it  gleams ; 

The  other  is  sleep’s  wide  ocean, 

And  its  glimmering  waves  are  dreams : 


The  one,  with  murmur  and  roar, 

Bears  fleets  around  coast  and  islet ; 
The  other,  without  a shore, 

Ne’er  knew  the  track  of  a pilot. 

John  Steeling. 


THE  FISHER’S  COTTAGE. 

We  sat  by  the  fisher’s  cottage, 

And  looked  at  the  stormy  tide ; 

The  evening  mist  came  rising, 

And  floating  far  and  wide. 

One  by  one  in  the  light-house 
The  lamps  shone  out  on  high  ; 

And  far  on  the  dim  horizon 
A ship  went  sailing  by. 

We  spoke  of  storm  and  shipwreck — 

Of  sailors,  and  how  they  live ; 

Of  journeys  ’twixt  sky  and  water, 

And  the  sorrows  and  joys  they  give. 

We  spoke  of  distant  countries, 

In  regions  strange  and  fair ; 

And  of  the  wondrous  beings 
And  curious  customs  there : 

Of  perfumed  lamps  on  the  Ganges, 

Which  are  launched  in  the  twilight  hour ; 

And  the  dark  and  silent  Brahmins, 

Who  worship  the  lotus  flower. 

Of  the  wretched  dwarfs  of  Lapland — 
Broad-headed,  wide-mouthed  and  small— 

Who  crouch  round  their  oil-fires,  cooking, 
And  chatter  and  scream  and  bawl. 

And  the  maidens  earnestly  listened, 

Till  at  last  we  spoke  no  more  ; 

The  ship  like  a shadow  had  vanished, 

And  darkness  fell  deep  on  the  shore. 

Henby  Heine  (Gorman). 

Translation  of  Chables  G.  Leland. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 


591 


VERSES 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  ALEXANDER  SEL- 
KIRK, DURING  HIS  SOLITARY  ABODE  IN  THE 
ISLAND  OF  JUAN  FERNANDEZ. 

I am  monarch  of  all  I survey — 

My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute ; 

From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea, 

I am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0 Solitude ! where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 

Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1 am  out  of  humanity’s  reach ; 

I must  finish  my  journey  alone, 

Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech — 

I start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 

The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 
My  form  with  indifference  see ; 

They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 

Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  friendship,  and  love, 

Divinely  bestowed  upon  man ! 

O,  had  I the  wings  of  a dove, 

How  soon  would  I taste  you  again ! 

My  sorrows  I then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth — 

Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 

And  be  cheered  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Religion ! What  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heavenly  word ! — 

More  precious  than  silver  and  gold, 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  afford ; 

But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard, 

Never  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a knell, 

Or  smiled  when  a sabbath  appeared. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 
Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 

Some  cordial  endearing  report 
Of  a land  I shall  visit  no  more ! 

My  friends — do  they  now  and  then  send 
A wish  or  a thought  after  me  ? 

O tell  me  I yet  have  a friend, 

Though  a friend  I am  never  to  see. 


How  fleet  is  a glance  of  the  mind ! 
Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 

The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 

And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 

When  I think  of  my  own  native  land, 

In  a moment  I seem  to  be  there ; 

But,  alas ! recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 

The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 

Even  here  is  a season  of  rest, 

And  I to  my  cabin  repair. 

There ’s  mercy  in  every  place, 

And  mercy — encouraging  thought ! — 

Gives  even  affliction  a grace, 

And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

William  Cowper. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a lily  in  bloom, 

An  angel  writing  in  a book  of  gold : 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

“ What  writest  thou  ? ” — The  vision  raised  its 
head, 

And,  with  a look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered — “The  names  of  those  who  love 
the  Lord.” 

“And  is  mine  one?”  said  Abou;  “Nay,  not 
so,” 

Replied  the  angel. — Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still ; and  said,  “ I pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men.” 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.  The  next 
night 

It  came  again,  with  a great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God 
had  blessed — 

And,  lo ! Ben  Adhem’s  name  led  all  the  rest ! 

Leigh  Hunt. 


L 


592 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  STEAMBOAT. 

See  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 
The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 

As,  crashing  o’er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  snrly  slaves ! 

With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 

That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind, 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers 
With  heaped  and  glistening  bells, 

Falls  round  her  fast  in  ringing  showers, 
With  every  wave  that  swells ; 

And,  flaming  o’er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown, 

The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 
Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 

When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders,  foaming,  by ! 

When  seas  are  silent  and  serene 
With  even  beam  she  glides, 

The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 
That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a wild  nymph,  far  apart 
She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 

The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm ; 
Now  answers,  like  a courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o’er, 

With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail ; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 
Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale ; 

And  many  a foresail,  scooped  and  strained, 
Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  hath  stained 
The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 
I see  yon  quivering  mast — 

The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 
Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 


An  hour,  and,  whirled  like  winnowing  chaff, 
The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o’er  yon  pennon-staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird’s  wing  1 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep ! 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 
With  floods  of  living  fire ; 

Sleep  on — and  when  the  morning  light 
Streams  o’er  the  shining  bay, 

0,  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 
Shall  never  wake  in  day ! 

Olives  Weddell  Holmes. 


THE  TILLAGE  BLACKSMITH. 

Undek  a spreading  chestnut  tree 
The  village  smithy  stands : 

The  smith — a mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 

And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 
Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long ; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan ; 

His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat — 

He  earns  whate’er  he  can ; 

And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 
For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow ; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge, 
With  measured  beat  and  slow — 

Like  a sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children,  coming  home  from  school, 
Look  in  at  the  open  door ; 

They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar. 

And  catch  the  burning  sparks,  that  fly 
Like  chaff  from  a threshing  floor. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys ; 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FORGE. 


593 


He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach — 

He  hears  his  daughter’s  voice, 

Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother’s  voice, 
Singing  in  Paradise ! 

He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 
How  in  the  grave  she  lies ; 

And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 
A tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing — 

Onward  through  life  he  goes ; 

Each  morning  sees  some  task  begin, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close — 

Something  attempted,  something  done, 
Has  earned  a night’s  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 
For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught ! 

Thus  at  the  flaming  forge  of  life 
Our  fortunes  must  he  wrought — 

Thus  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 
Each  burning  deed  and  thought ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  SOHO  OF  THE  FORGE. 

Clang,  clang ! the  massive  anvils  ring ; 
Clang,  clang ! a hundred  hammers  swing — 
Like  the  thunder-rattle  of  a tropic  sky, 

The  mighty  blows  still  multiply — 

Clang,  clang ! 

Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow, 

What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 

Clang,  clang ! — we  forge  the  coulter  now — 
The  coulter  of  the  kindly  plough. 

Sweet  Mary  mother,  bless  our  toil ! 

May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 
To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil ! 

Clang,  clang ! — our  coulter’s  course  shall  be 
On  many  a sweet  and  sheltered  lea, 

By  many  a streamlet’s  silver  tide — 

Amidst  the  song  of  morning  birds, 

Amidst  the  low  of  sauntering  herds — 

38 


Amidst  soft  breezes,  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  May, 
Along  the  green  hill’s  side. 

When  regal  Autumn’s  bounteous  hand 
With  wide-spread  glory  clothes  the  land — 
When  to  the  valleys,  from  the  brow 
Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 
A ruddy  sea  of  living  gold — 

We  bless,  we  bless  the  plough. 

Clang,  clang ! — again,  my  mates,  what  glows 
Beneath  the  hammer’s  potent  blows  ? 

Clink,  clank! — we  forge  the  giant  chain, 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel’s  strain 
’Midst  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 
Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 
The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 

The  storm-cloud  on  the  hill ; 

Calmly  he  rests — though  far  away, 

In  boisterous  climes,  his  vessel  lay — 

Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep  ? 

By  Afric’s  pestilential  shore ; 

By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar ; 

By  many  a palmy  western  isle, 

Basking  in  Spring’s  perpetual  smile  ; 

By  stormy  Labrador. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 

When  to  the  battery’s  deadly  peal 
The  crashing  broadside  makes  reply  ; 

Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 

Hold  grappling  ships,  that  strive  the  while 
For  death  or  victory  ? 

Hurrah ! — cling,  ckmg  ! — once  more,  what 
glows, 

Dark  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 
The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 

The  furnace’s  red  breath  ? 

Clang,  clang! — a burning  torrent,  clear 
And  brilliant  of  bright  sparks,  is  poured 


594 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Around,  and  np  in  the  dusky  air, 

As  our  hammers  forge  the  Sword. 

The  sword ! — a name  of  dread ; yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman’s  thigh ’t  is  hound — 
"While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth, 

While  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 

The  war-drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound — 
How  sacred  is  it  then  ! 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight — 

Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 

As  that  where  fell  Leonidas ; 

Or  on  some  sterile  plain  and  stern, 

A Marston,  or  a Bannockburn ; 

Or  amidst  crags  and  bursting  rills, 

The  Switzer’s  Alps,  gray  Tyrol’s  hills ; 

Or,  as  when  sunk  the  Armada’s  pride, 

It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide — 

Still,  still,  whene’er  the  battle  word 
Is  Liberty,  when  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land— 

Then  Heaven  bless  the  Sword ! 

Anonymous. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin’s  anchor  forged ! ’t  is 
at  a white  heat  now' — 

The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased; 
though,  on  the  forge’s  brow, 

The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the 
sable  mound ; 

And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths 
ranking  round ; 

All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad 
hands  only  bare, 

Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work 
the  windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains — the 
black  mould  heaves  below ; 

And  red  and  deep,  a hundred  veins  burst  out 
at  every  throe. 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — 0,  Vulcan 
what  a glow ! 


’T  is  blinding  white,  ’t  is  blasting  bright — the 
high  sun  shines  not  so ! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery 
fearful  show ! 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the 
ruddy  lurid  row 

Of  smiths — that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like 
men  before  the  foe ! 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the 
sailing  monster  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about,  the  faces  fiery 
grow : 

“ Hurrah ! ” they  shout,  “leap  out,  leap  out!  ” 
bang,  bang!  the  sledges  go  ; 

Hurrah  ! the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high 
and  low ; 

A hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every 
squashing  blow ; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail ; the  rat- 
tling cinders  strew 

The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the 
sweltering  fountains  flow ; 

And,  thick  and  loud,  the  s winking  crowd  at 
every  stroke  pant  “ho ! ” 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters ! leap  out,  and 
lay  on  load ! 

Let ’s  forge  a goodly  anchor — a bower  thick 
and  broad ; 

For  a heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow, 
I bode ; 

And  I see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a peril- 
ous road — 

The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lea ; the  roll  of 
ocean  poured 

From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea ; the  main- 
mast by  the  board ; 

The  bulwarks  down ; the  rudder  gone ; the 
boats  stove  at  the  chains ; 

But  courage  still,  brave  mariners — the  bower 
yet  remains ! 

And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns — save 
when  ye  pitch  sky  high  ; 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said, 
“Fear  nothing — here  ami!” 

Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order ! let  foot  and 
hand  keep  time ; 

Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than 
any  steeple’s  chime. 

But  while  ye  swing  your  sledges,  sing ; and 
let  the  burthen  be. 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR. 


The  anchor  is  the  anvil  king,  and  royal  crafts- 
men we ! 

Strike  in,  strike  in ! — the  sparks  begin  to  dull 
their  rustling  red ; 

Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din — our 
work  will  soon  be  sped  ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery 
rich  array 

For  a hammock  at  the  roaring  hows,  or  an 
oozy  couch  of  clay 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  mer- 
ry craftsmen  here 

For  the  yeo-heave-o,  and  the  heave-away, 
and  the  sighing  seamen’s  cheer — 

When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go,  far,  far 
from  love  and  home ; 

And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a row,  wail  o’er 
the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom,  he  darkens  down 
at  last ; 

A shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e’er  from 
cat  was  cast. 

O trusted  and  trustworthy  guard!  if  thou 
hadst  life  like  me, 

What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  be- 
neath the  deep  green  sea ! 

O deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold 
such  sights  as  thou  ? — 

The  hoary  monster’s  palaces! — Methinks 
what  joy  ’t  were  now 

To  go  plumb-plunging  down,  amid  the  assem- 
bly of  the  whales, 

And  feel  the  churned  sea  round  me  boil  be- 
neath theii  scourging  tails ! 

Then  deep  in  tangle -woods  to  fight  the  fierce 
sea-unicorn, 

And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  hack,  for 
all  his  ivory  horn ; 

To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade 
forlorn ; 

And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark,  to  laugh 
his  jaws  to  scorn  ; 

To  leap  down  on  the  kraken’s  back,  where 
’mid  Norwegian  isles 

He  lies,  a lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shal- 
lowed miles— 

Till,  snorting  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off 
he  rolls ; 

Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far 
astonished  shoals 


595 

Of  his  back-browsing  ocean-calves ; or,  hap 
ly,  in  a cove 

Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some 
Undine’s  love, 

To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens ; or,  hard 
by  icy  lands, 

To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  ceru- 
lean sands. 

O broad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep!  whose 
sports  can  equal  thine  ? 

The  dolphin  weighs  a thousand  tons,  that 
tugs  thy  cable  line  ; 

And  night  by  night ’t  is  thy  delight,  thy  glory 
day  by  day, 

Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white  the  giant 
game  to  play. 

But,  shamer  of  our  little  sports ! forgive  the 
name  I gave : 

A fisher’s  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to 
save. 

0 lodger  in  the  sea-kings’  halls ! couldst  thou 
hut  understand 

Whose  he  the  white  hones  by  thy  side — or 
who  that  dripping  band, 

Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that 
round  about  thee  bend, 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a dream  bless- 
ing their  ancient  friend — 

O,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with 
larger  steps  round  thee, 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride — 
thou  ’dst  leap  within  the  sea ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the 
pleasant  strand 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of 
father-land — 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy 
churchyard  grave 

So  freely,  for  a restless  bed  amid  the  tossing 
wave ! 

O,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I have 
fondly  sung, 

Honor  him  for  their  memory  whose  bones  he 
goes  among ! 

Samvel  Ferguson. 


596  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  SOLDIER’S  DREAM. 

OrB  bugles  sang  truce ; for  the  night-cloud 
had  lowered, 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in 
the  sky ; 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  over- 
powered— 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to 
die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of 
straw, 

By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the 
slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a sweet  vision  I saw, 

And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I dreamt  it 
again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field’s  dreadful 
array 

Ear,  far  I had  roamed  on  a desolate  track : 

’T  was  Autumn — and  sunshine  arose  on  the 
way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed 
me  back. 

I flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed  so  oft 

In  life’s  morning  march,  when  my  bosom 
was  young ; 

I heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating 
aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn- 
reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I 
swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends 
never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a thousand  times  o’er, 

And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fullness 
of  heart. 

Stay,  stay  with  us ! — rest ; thou  art  weary  and 
worn! — 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to 
stay; 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of 
morn, 

And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted 
away. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BLENHEIM. 

i. 

It  was  a Summer  evening — 

Old  Kaspar’s  work  was  done. 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun; 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 
His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine. 

n. 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round. 
Which  he  beside  the  rivulet, 

In  playing  there,  had  found ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found, 
That  was  so  large,  and  smooth,  and  round. 

in. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy, 

Who  stood  expectant  by ; 

And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 
And,  with  a natural  sigh — 

“ ’T  is  some  poor  fellow’s  skull,”  said  he^ 
“ Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

rv. 

“ I find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there ’s  many  here  about ; 

And  often  when  I go  to  plough, 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out ; 

For  many  thousand  men,”  said  he, 
“Were  slain  in  the  great  victory.” 

v. 

“Now  tell  us  what ’t  was  all  about,” 
Young  Peterkin  he  cries ; 

And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 
With  wonder-waiting  eyes — 

“Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  fought  each  other  for.” 

vi. 

“It  was  the  English,”  Kaspar  cried, 

“ Who  put  the  French  to  rout; 

But  what  they  fought  each  other  for, 

I could  not  well  make  out ; 

But  every  body  said,”  quoth  he, 

“ That ’t  was  a famous  victory. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 


597 


VII. 

“ My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by ; 

They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 
And  he  was  forced  to  fly ; 

So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 

Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

VIII. 

“ With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 
Was  wasted  far  and  wide ; 

And  many  a childing  mother  there, 

And  new-born  baby  died ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

At  every  famous  victory. 

IX. 

“ They  say  it  was  a shocking  sight 
After  the  field  was  won — 

For  many  thousand  bodies  here 
Lay  rotting  in  the  sun ; 

But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 

After  a famous  victory. 


“ Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro’  won, 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene.” 

M Why,  ’t  was  a very  wicked  thing ! ” 
Said  little  Welhelmine. 

“Nay — nay — my  little  girl!  ” quoth  he, 
“ It  was  a famous  victory. 

XI. 

And  everybody  praised  the  Duke, 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win.” 

“ But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last?  ” 
Quoth  little  Peterkin. 

“ Why,  that  I cannot  tell,”  said  he; 

“ But ’t  was  a famous  victory.” 

Robert  Southey. 


VICTORIOUS  MEN  OF  EARTH. 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 
Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are : 
Though  you  bind  in  every  shore, 

And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 


As  night  or  day, 

Yet  you  proud  monarchs  must  obey, 

And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when 
Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common 
men. 

Devouring  famine,  plague,  and  war, 
Each  able  to  undo  mankind, 

Death’s  servile  emissaries  are ; 

Nor  to  these  alone  confined — 

He  hath  at  will 

More  quaint  and  subtle  ways  to  kill : 

A smile  or  kiss,  as  he  will  use  the  art, 
Shall  have  the  cunning  skill  to  break  a 
heart. 

James  Shirley. 


THE  ARSENAL  AT  SPRINGFIELD. 

This  is  the  Arsenal.  From  floor  to  ceiling, 
Like  a huge  organ,  rise  the  burnished  arms ; 

But  from  their  silent  pipes  no  anthem  pealing 
Startles  the  villages  with  strange  alarms. 

Ah ! what  a sound  will  rise — how  wild  and 
dreary — 

When  the  death-angel  touches  those  swift 
keys! 

What  loud  lament  and  dismal  Miserere 
Will  mingle  with  their  awful  symphonies ! 

I hear  even  now  the  infinite  fierce  chorus — 
The  cries  of  agony,  the  endless  groan, 

Which,  though  the  ages  that  have  gone  be- 
fore us, 

In  long  reverberations  reach  our  own. 

On  helm  and  harness  rings  the  Saxon  ham- 
mer; 

Through  Cimbric  forest  roars  the  Norse- 
man’s song ; 

And  loud,  amid  the  universal  clamor, 

O’er  distant  deserts  sounds  the  Tartar  gong. 

I hear  the  Florentine,  who  from  his  palace 
Wheels  out  his  battle-bell  with  dreadful 
din ; 

And  Aztec  priests  upon  their  teocallis 
Beat  the  wild  war-drums  made  of  serpents’ 
skin ; 


698 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


The  tumult  of  each  sacked  and  burning  vil- 
lage; 

The  shout  that  every  prayer  for  mercy 
drowns ; 

The  soldiers’  revels  in  the  midst  of  pillage ; 
The  wail  of  famine  in  beleaguered  towns ; 

The  bursting  shell,  the  gateway  wrenched 
asunder, 

The  rattling  musketry,  the  clashing  blade — 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  tones  of  thunder, 

The  diapason  of  the  cannonade. 

Is  it,  0 man,  with  such  discordant  noises, 
With  such  accursed  instruments  as  these, 

Thou  drownest  Nature’s  sweet  and  kindly 
voices, 

And  jarrest  the  celestial  harmonies? 

Were  half  the  power  that  fills  the  world  with 
terror, 

Were  half  the  wealth  bestowed  on  camps 
and  courts, 

Given  to  redeem  the  human  mind  from  error, 
There  were  no  need  of  arsenals  nor  forts ; 

The  warrior’s  name  would  be  a name  ab- 
horred ; 

And  every  nation  that  should  lift  again 

Its  hand  against  a brother,  on  its  forehead 
Would  wear  forevermore  the  curse  of 
Cain! 

Down  the  dark  future,  through  long  genera- 
tions, 

The  echoing  sounds  grow  fainter  and  then 
cease ; 

And  like  a bell,  with  solemn,  sweet  vibrations, 
I hear  once  more  the  voice  of  Christ  say, 
“Peace!” 

Peace ! — and  no  longer  from  its  brazen  portals 
The  blast  of  war’s  great  organ  shakes  the 
skies ; 

But,  beautiful  as  songs  of  the  immortals, 

The  holy  melodies  of  love  arise. 

Heney  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my 
childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  tc 
view ! — 

The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled 
wildwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that 
stood  by  it ; 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cata- 
ract fell ; 

The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it; 
And  e’en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the 
well — 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the 
well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I hailed  as  a treas- 
ure ; 

F or  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure — 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I seized  it,  with  hands  that  were 
glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ! 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  over- 
flowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from 
the  well — 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket,  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  mossy  brim  to  re- 
ceive it, 

As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Hot  a full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to 
leave  it, 

The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habi- 
tation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 

As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father’s  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the 
well — 

The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hangs  in  the 
well! 


Samuel  Woodworth. 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER’S  PICTURE. 


599 


ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER’S 
PICTURE 

OUT  OF  NORFOLK,  THE  GIFT  OF  MY  COUSIN, 
ANN  BODHAM. 

0 that  those  lips  had  language!  Life  has 
passed 

With  me  but  roughly  since  I heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I 
see, 

The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me ; 
Voice  only  fails — else  how  distinct  they  say 
“Grieve  not,  my  child — chase  all  thy  fears 
away ! ” 

The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize, 

The  art  that  baffles  Time’s  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it !)  here  shines  on  me  still  the 
same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear ! 

0 welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  bidst  me  honor  with  an  artless  song, 
Affectionate,  a mother  lost  so  long. 

1 will  obey — not  willingly  alone, 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own ; 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief, 
Fancy  shall  weave  a charm  for  my  relief — 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 

A momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother ! when  I learned  that  thou  wast 
dead, 

Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I shed  ? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o’er  thy  sorrowing  son — 
Wretch  even  then,  life’s  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a kiss ; 
Perhaps  a tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile!  it  answers — Yes. 

I heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day ; 

I saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away ; 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a last  adieu ! 

But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art 
gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a sound  unknown ; 
May  I but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more. 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  con- 
cern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return ; 


What  ardently  I wished  I long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived — 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled, 

Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a child. 

Thus  many  a sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrows  spent, 

I learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot ; 

But,  though  I less  deplored  thee,  ne’er  for- 
got. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard 
no  more — 

Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery 
floor ; 

And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day, 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way — 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet  cap — 

’T  is  now  become  a history  little  known, 

That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our 
own. 

Short-lived  possession ! but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a storm  that  has  effaced 
A thousand  other  themes,  less  deeply  traced : 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  might’st  know  me  safe  and  warm- 
ly laid ; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I left  my  home — 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and 
glowed : 

All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall — 
Ne’er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 
That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes ; 

All  this,  still  legible  in  memory’s  page, 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honors  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may — 
Perhaps  a frail  memorial,  but  sincere — 

Not  scorned  in  Heaven,  though  little  noticed 
here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the 
hours 

When,  playing  with  thy  vesture’s  tissued 
flowers — 

The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine — 

I pricked  them  into  paper  with  a pin, 

(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the 
while — 


600 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and 
smile) — 

Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I wish 
them  here  ? 

I would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I might. 

But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much, 

That  I should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou — as  a gallant  bark,  from  Albion’s 
coast, 

(The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean 
crossed,) 

Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
"Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons 
smile, 

There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below, 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay — 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift ! hast  reached 
the  shore 

“Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows 
roar ; ” 

And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  dis- 
tressed— 

Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest- 
tossed, 

Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  com- 
pass lost ; 

And  day  by  day  some  current’s  thwarting 
force 

Sets  me  more  distant  from  a prosperous 
course. 

Yet  O,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and 
he! 

That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the 
earth ; 

But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies. 

And  now,  farewell! — Time,  unrevoked,  has 
run 

His  wonted  course;  yet  what  I wished  is 
done. 


By  Contemplation’s  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I seem  to  have  lived  my  childhood  o’er 
again — 

To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were 
mine, 

Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine ; 

And,  while  the  wings  of  fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee, 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me 
left. 

William  Cowpek. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

Sweet  Auburn ! loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring 
swain, 

Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  Summer’s  lingering  blooms  de- 
layed ! 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease — 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could 
please ! 

How  often  have  I loitered  o’er  thy  green, 
Where  "humble  happiness  endeared  each 
scene ! 

How  often  have  I paused  on  every  charm — 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topt  the  neighboring 
hill, 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the 
shade — 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 
How  often  have  I blest  the  coming  day, 
When  toil,  remitting,  lent  its  turn  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading 
tree; 

While  many  a pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 
And  many  a gambol  frolicked  o’er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 
round ; 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired: 
The  dancing  pair,  that  simply  sought  renown 
By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down ; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


601 


The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 
While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the 
place ; 

The  bashful  virgin’s  sidelong  looks  of  love, 
The  matron’s  glance  that  would  those  looks 
reprove : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village ! sports 
like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e’en  toil  to 
please ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influ- 
ence shed ; 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms 
are  fled. 

Sweet-smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn ! 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  with- 
drawn ; 

Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant’s  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green ; 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain ; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy 
way; 

Along  thy  glades,  a solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies, 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries ; 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 
And  the  long  grass  o’ertops  the  mouldering 
wall; 

And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler’s 
hand, 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay ; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade — 
A breath  can  make  them,  as  a breath  has 
made ; 

But  a bold  peasantry,  their  country’s  pride, 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  sup- 
plied. 

A time  there  was,  ere  England’s  griefs  be- 
gan, 

When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its 
man: 


For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome 
store — 

Just  gave  "what  life  required,  but  gave  no 
more ; 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered:  trade’s  unfeeling 
train 

Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets 
rose, 

Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  re- 
pose ; 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peace- 
ful scene, 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the 
green — 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a kinder  shore, 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn ! parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant’s  pow- 
er. 

Here,  as  I take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn 
grew, 

Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to 
pain. 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of 
care, 

In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my 
share — 

I still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down ; 
To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close, 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose ; 
I still  had  hopes — for  pride  attends  us  still — 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned 
skill, 

Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I felt,  and  all  I saw ; 


502 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


And,  as  a hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pur- 
sue, 

Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she 
flew, 

I still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O blest  retirement ! friend  to  life’s  decline ! 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine ! 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like 
these, 

A youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease ; 

Who  quits  a world  where  strong  temptations 
try, 

And,  since ’t  is  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and 
weep, 

Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous 
deep; 

No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way ; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening’s 
close 

Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose ; 
There,  as  I passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  be- 
low: 

The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their 
young, 

The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o’eu  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school, 
The  watch-dog’s  voice  that  bayed  the  whis- 
pering wind, 

And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant 
mind. 

These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had 
made. 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail ; 

No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale ; 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway 
tread — 

But  all  the  bloomy  blush  of  life  is  fled. 


All  but  one  widowed,  solitary  thing, 

That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for 
bread, 

To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses 
spread, 

To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 

To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 

The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden 
smiled, 

And  still  where  many  a garden-flower  grows 
wild, 

There,  where  a few  torn  shrubs  the  place 
disclose, 

The  village  preacher’s  modest  mansion  rose. 
A man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 

And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change, 
his  place ; 

Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour ; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize- 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their 
pain. 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged 
breast ; 

The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  al  • 
lowed ; 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away — 
Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow 
done, 

Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields 
were  won. 

Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned 
to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  e’en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue’s  side ; 


J 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


603 


But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt  for 
all; 

And,  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dis- 
mayed, 

The  reverend  champion  stood.  At  his  con- 
trol 

Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to 
raise, 

And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double 
sway, 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to 
pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

E’en  children  followed,  with  endearing  wile, 
And  plucked  his  gown,  to  share  the  good 
man’s  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  exprest ; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares 
distressed ; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were 
given — 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  hea- 
ven. 

As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the 
storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds 
are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the 
way, 

With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view — 

I knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 


Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to 
trace 

The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face ; 

Full  well  they  laughed,  with  counterfeited 
glee, 

At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned; 
Yet  he  was  kind — or,  if  severe  in  aught, 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew ; 
’T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher 
too; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  pre- 
sage, 

And  e’en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  e’en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue 
still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder 
grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame ; the  very  spot, 

Where  many  a time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on 
high, 

Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing 

eJe, 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 
inspired, 

Where  gray-beard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  re- 
tired, 

Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks 
profound, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went 
round. 

Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place : 

The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded 
floor, 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the 
door, 

The  chest  contrived  a double  debt  to  pay — 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day, 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of 
goose ; 


6)4 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the 
day, 

With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers  and  fennel 

gay; 

While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 
Ranged  o’er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a row. 

Vain,  transitory  splendor!  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour’s  importance  to  the  poor  man’s  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 

No  more  the  farmer’s  news,  the  barber’s  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman’s  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall 
clear, 

Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to 
hear; 

The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes ! let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train ; 

To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 

One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
j The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born 
sway; 

Lightly  they  frolic  o’er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined ; 

But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  ar- 
rayed— 

In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 

And,  e’en  while  fashion’s  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Yo  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  sur- 
vey 

The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor’s  de- 
cay! 

’T  is  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a splendid  and  a happy  land. 

Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted 
ore, 

And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her 
shore ; 


Hoards,  e’en  beyond  the  miser’s  wish,  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains:  this  wealth  is  but  a 
name, 

That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss:  the  man  of  wealth  and 
pride 

Takes  up  a space  that  many  poor  supplied — 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park’s  extended 
bounds — 

Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds ; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half 
their  growth ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen, 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies; 

While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendor,  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her 
reign, 

Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  sup- 
plies, 

Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes; 
But  when  those  charms  are  past — for  charms 
are  frail — 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress : 

Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betrayed, 

In  nature’s  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed ; 
But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling 
land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a garden  and  a grave. 

Where  then,  ah!  where,  shall  poverty  re- 
side, 

To  ’scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  ? 
If,  to  some  common’s  fenceless  limits  strayed, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  di- 
vide, 

And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 


605 


If  to  the  city  sped,  what  waits  him  there  ? 

To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 

To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 

To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creatures’  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade ; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 
display, 

There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the 
way. 

The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight 
reign, 

Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous 
train ; 

Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing 
square — 

The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e’er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? Ah ! turn 
thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  female 
lies: 

j She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blest, 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the 
thorn ; 

How  lost  to  all — her  friends,  her  virtue  fled — 
Hear  her  betrayer’s  door  she  lays  her  head ; 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from 
the  shower, 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When,  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel,  and  robes  of  country 
brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn — thine  the  love- 
liest train — 

Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 

E’en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 
At  proud  men’s  doors  they  ask  a little  bread. 

Ah,  no ! To  distant  climes,  a dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  be- 
tween, 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they 

go: 

Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 


Far  different  there,  from  all  that  charmed  be- 
fore, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  : 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a downward  ray, 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to 
sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those  pois’nous  fields,  with  rank  luxuriance 
crowned, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death 
around ; 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless 
prey, 

And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than 
they; 

While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the 
skies. 

Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene — 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven ! what  sorrows  gloomed  that 
parting  day 

That  called  them  from  their  native  walks 
away; 

When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked 
their  last, 

And  took  a long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main; 
And,  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to 
weep! 

The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others’ 
woe; 

But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 

He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
Ilis  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 

The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a lover’s  for  her  father’s  arms. 

With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her 
woes, 

And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure 
rose ; 


606 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many 
a tear, 

And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly 
dear; 

Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O luxury ! thou  curst  by  Heaven’s  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for 
thee! 

How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boast  of  a florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they 
grow, 

A bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe ; 

Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  un- 
sound, 

Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a ruin 
round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I 
stand, 

I see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads 
the  sail 

That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale — 
Downward  they  move,  a melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the 
strand. 

Contented  toil,  and  hospitable  care, 

And  kind  connubial  tenderness  are  there ; 
And  piety  with  wishes  placed  above, 

And  steady  loyalty,  and  faithful  love. 

And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade — 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 

To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame! 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride ! 

Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe — 
That  found’st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep’st 
me  so! 

Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel ! 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue — fare  thee  well ! 
Farewell! — and  0!  where’er  thy  voice  be 
tried, 

On  Torno’s  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca’s  side— 


Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow — 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigors  of  th’  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him  that  states,  of  native  strength  pos- 
sest, 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest ; 
That  trade’s  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  de- 
cay, 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy, 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDOK 

Sabbata  pango  ; 

Funera  plango  ; 

Solemnia  clang#. 

Inscription  on  an  old  bell. 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 

Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 

In  the  days  of  childhood, 

Fling  round  my  cradle 
Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I ponder 
Where’er  I wander, 

And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee — 

With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I ’ve  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a clime  in, 

Tolling  sublime  in 
Cathedral  shrine, 

While  at  a glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate ; 

But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine 


THE  BELLS. 


607 


For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 
Its  hold  notes  free, 

Made  the  hells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 


I ’ve  heard  hells  tolling 
Old  Adrian’s  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 
From  the  Vatican — 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 
Of  Notre  Dame ; 


But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o’er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 

0 ! the  hells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 


There ’s  a hell  in  Moscow ; 

While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O 
In  Saint  Sophia 
The  Turkman  gets, 

And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 

From  the  tapering  summit 
Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I freely  grant  them ; 

But  there ’s  an  anthem 
More  dear  to  me — 

’T  is  the  hells  of  Shandon, 

That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

Fatiieb  Prout.  (Francis  Mahony.) 


THE  BELLS. 


Hear  the  sledges  with  the  hells — 

Silver  hells — [tells ! 

What  a world  of  merriment  their  melody  fore- 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 

While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 
With  a crystalline  delight — 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  tintinnabulation  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  hells,  hells,  hells,  hells, 

Bells,  hells,  hells — 

From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the 
hells. 

11. 

Hear  the  mellow  wedding  hells — 
Golden  hells ! 

What  a world  of  happiness  their  harmony 
foretells ! 

Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight! 

From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 

What  a liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she 
gloats 

On  the  moon ! 

0,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 

What  a gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 

How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future!  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 
Of  the  hells,  hells,  hells, 

Of  the  hells,  hells,  hells,  bells, 

Bells,  hells,  hells — 

To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the 
bells. 

in. 

Hear  the  loud  alarum  hells — 

Brazen  bells ! 

What  a tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency 
tells ! 

In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
IIow  they  scream  out  their  affright! 


608  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 

Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 

They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 

They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 

They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

Out  of  tune, 

They  are  ghouls : 

In  the  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of 

And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls ; 

the  fire, 

And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

In  a mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and 

Rolls, 

frantic  fire 

A paean  from  the  bells ! 

Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 

And  his  merry  bosom  swells 

With  a desperate  desire, 

With  the  paean  of  the  bells ! 

And  a resolute  endeavor, 

And  he  dances  and  he  yells ; 

Now— now  to  sit  or  never, 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 

In  a sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

0,  the  hells,  bells,  hells, 

To  the  paean  of  the  bells — 

What  a tale  their  terror  tells 

Of  the  bells : 

Of  Despair ! 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 

In  a sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

What  a horror  they  outpour 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells — 

On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 

Yet  the  ear  it  fully  knows, 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells ; 

By  the  twanging, 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

And  the  clanging, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows ; 

In  a happy  Runic  rhyme, 

Yet  the  ear  distinctly  tells, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 

In  the  jangling, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 

And  the  wrangling, 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells — 

By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 

of  the  bells — 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Of  the  bells — 

Edgae  Allan  Poe. 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 

In  the  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

IV. 

THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

Hear  the  tolling  of  the  bells — 

Iron  bells ! 

Those  evening  bells ! those  evening  bells ! 

What  a world  of  solemn  thought  their  mon- 

How many  a tale  their  music  tells, 

ody  compels ! 

Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 

In  the  silence  of  the  night, 

When  last  I heard  their  soothing  chime ! 

How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  melancholy  menace  of  their  tone ! 

For  every  sound  that  floats 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away; 

From  the  rust  within  their  throats 

And  many  a heart  that  then  was  gay, 

Is  a groan. 

And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 

Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 

And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 

And  so ’t  will  be  when  I am  gone— 

And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on ; 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 

While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 

Feel  a glory  in  so  rolling 

And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

On  the  human  heart  a stone — 

Thomas  Moobe. 

ALEXANDER’S  FEAST. 


60V 


ALEXANDER’S  FEAST; 

OE,  THE  POWEE  OF  MUSIC. — AN  ODE  IN  HONOE 

of  st.  oecilia’s  day. 

’T  was  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip’s  warlike  son : 

Aloft,  in  awful  state, 

The  godlike  hero  sate 

On  his  imperial  throne ; 

His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles 
hound ; 

(So  should  desert  in  arms  he  crowned) ; 
The  lovely  Thais  hy  his  side 
Sate,  like  a blooming  eastern  bride, 

In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty’s  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair ! 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

CHOEUS. 

Sappy , happy,  happy  pair  / 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave, 

None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair. 

Timotheus,  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire, 

With  flying  fingers  touched  the  lyre ; 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 

The  song  began  from  Jove, 

Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above, 

(Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  Love). 

A dragon’s  fiery  form  belied  the  god ; 
Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode, 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  pressed, 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast ; 
Then,  round  her  slender  waist  he  curled, 

And  stamped  an  image  of  himself,  a sovereign 
of  the  world. 

The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound — 
A present  deity ! they  shout  around ; 

A present  deity  I the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

39 


CHOEUS. 

With  ravished  ears 
The  monarch  hears , 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 

And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of  Bacchus,  then,  the  sweet  musi 
cian  sung — 

Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young ; 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes: 

Sound  the  trumpets ; beat  the  drums ! 
Flushed  with  a purple  grace, 

He  shows  his  honest  face ; 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath — he  comes_ 
he  comes ! 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain ; 
Bacchus’  blessings  are  a treasure ; 
Drinking  is  the  soldiers’  pleasure : 

Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure ; 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

CHOEUS. 

Bacchus'1  blessings  are  a treasure  ; 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure : 
Rich  the  treasure, 

Sweet  the  pleasure  ; 

Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain ; 

Fought  all  his  battles  o’er  again ; 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice 
he  slew  the  slain. 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise — 

His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ; 

And,  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand,  and  checked  his  pride. 
He  chose  a mournful  Muse, 

Soft  pity  to  infuse, 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a fate 
Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen — 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate, 

And  weltering  in  his  blood ; 
Deserted,  at  his  utmost  need, 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed ; 

On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 

With  not  a friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate 


610 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Revolving  in  his  altered  soul 
The  various  turns  of  chance  below ; 
And,  now  and  then,  a sigh  he  stole ; 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

CHORUS. 

Revolving  in  7iis  altered  soul 

The  various  turns  of  chance  below  ; 
And,  now  and  then , a sigh  he  stole; 

And  tears  leg  an  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled,  to  see 
That  Love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 

’T  was  but  a kindred  sound  to  move, 

For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures, 

Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble; 

Honor  but  an  empty  bubble— 

Never  ending,  still  beginning — 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying ; 

If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O think  it  worth  enjoying ! 

Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee — 

Take  the  goods  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  sky  with  loud  applause ; 
So  Love  was  crowned,  but  Music  won  the 
cause. 

The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  bis  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
"Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again. 

At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  op- 
pressed, 

The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

CHORUS. 

The  prince  unable  to  conceal  his  pain , 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care , 

And  sighed  and  looked , sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked,  and  sighed  again. 

At  length , with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again — 

A louder  yet,  and  yet  a louder  strain ! 

Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 

And  rouse  him,  like  a rattling  peal  of  thunder. 


Hark,  hark ! the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head ! 

As  awaked  from  the  dead, 

And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge!  revenge!  Timotheus  cries; 

See  the  Furies  arise! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their 
eyes ! 

Behold  a ghastly  band, 

Each  a torch  in  his  hand ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were 
slain, 

And  unburied  remain, 

Inglorious,  on  the  plain ! 

Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on 
high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods ! 
The  princes  applaud  with  a furious  joy, 

And  the  king  seized  a flambeau  with  zeal  to 
destroy; 

Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And,  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

CHORUS. 

And  the  king  seized  a flambeojU  with  zeal  to 
destroy  ; 

Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 

And , like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy. 

Thus,  long  ago — 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learned  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute — 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute, 

And  sounding  lyre, 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft 
desire. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature’s  mother- wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 


THE  PASSIONS.  611 


Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown ; 

He  raised  a mortal  to  the  skies — 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

GEAND  CHOEUS. 

At  last  divine  Cecilia  came , 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 

The  sweet  enthusiast , from  her  sacred  store , 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds. 

With  nature's  mother-wit,  and  arts  unknown 
before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 

Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 

He  raised  a mortal  to  the  skies — 

She  drew  an  angel  down. 

John  Dbyden. 


INFLUENCE  OF  MUSIC. 

Oepheus,  with  his  lute,  made  trees, 
And  the  mountain-tops  that  freeze, 
Bow  themselves  when  he  did  sing ; 
To  his  music  plants  and  flowers 
Ever  sprung — as  sun  and  showers 
There  had  made  a lasting  Spring. 

Every  thing  that  heard  him  play, 

Even  the  billows  of  the  sea, 

Hung  their  heads,  and  then  lay  by. 
In  sweet  music  is  such  art, 

Killing  care,  and  grief  of  heart — 

Fall  asleep,  or,  hearing,  die ! 

Shakhspeake. 


MUSIC. 

O,  lull  me,  lull  me,  charming  air ! 

My  senses  rock  with  wonder  sweet ! 
• Like  snow  on  wool  thy  fallings  are ; 
Soft,  like  a spirit’s,  are  thy  feet. 
Grief  who  need  fear 
That  hath  an  ear? 

Down  let  him  lie, 

And  slumbering  die, 

And  change  his  soul  for  harmony. 

John  Dkyden. 


THE  PASSIONS. 

AN  ODE  FOE  MUSIC. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 

The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting — 
Possest  beyond  the  Muse’s  painting ; 

By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined ; 

Till  once,  ’t  is  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 

From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 

Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 

Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E’en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed ; his  eyes,  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings : 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures  wan  Despair, 

Low,  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled — 
A solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 

’T  was  sad  by  fits,  by  starts ’t  was  wild. 

But  thou,  0 Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair — 
What  was  thy  delightful  measure  ? 

Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance 
hail! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the 
song; 

And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at 
every  close ; 

And  Hope  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved 
her  golden  hair. 


612 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  with  a I 
frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose ; 

He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thun- 
der down ; 

And,  with  a withering  look, 

The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 

And  blew  a blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

Were  ne’er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe ! 

And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum,  with  furious  heat ; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause 
between, 

Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild,  unaltered  mein, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed 
bursting  from  his  head. 

Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were 
fixed — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ; 

Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was 
mixed ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love — now,  rav- 
ing, called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired ; 

And,  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet,  , 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pen- 
sive soul ; 

And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound ; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled 
measure  stole ; 

Or,  o’er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond 
delay, 

Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  Peace,  and  lonely  musing, 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  0 ! how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a nymph  of  healthiest 
hue, 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket 
rung — 

The  hunter’s  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad 
known ! 


The  oak-crowned  Sisters,  and  their  chaste* 
eyed  Queen, 

Satyrs  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green ; 
Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear ; 

And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen 
spear. 

Last  came  Joy’s  ecstatic  trial: 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest ; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 
Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the 
best ; 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the 
strain, 

They  saw,  in  Tempe’s  vale,  her  native  maids, 
Amidst  the  festal  sounding  shades, 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing, 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a gay  fantastic  round : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  un- 
bound; 

And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 
Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O Music ! sphere-descended  maid, 

Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom’s  aid ! 

Why,  goddess ! why,  to  us  denied, 

Lay’st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 

As,  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower, 

You  learned  an  all  commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O nymph  endeared, 

Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard ; 

Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart, 

Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art? 

Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 

Warm,  energetic,  chaste,  sublime! 

Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age, 

Fill  thy  recording  sister’s  page-; 

’T  is  said — and  I believe  the  tale — 

Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 

Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age-*- 
E’en  all  at  once  together  found — 

Cecilia’s  mingled  world  of  sound. 

O bid  our  vain  endeavors  cease ; 

Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece ! 

Return  in  all  thy  simple  state — 

Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate ! 

William  Colluis. 


ON  A LADY  SINGING. 


TO  CON  ST  ANTI  A — SIN  GIN  G. 

Thus  to  be  lost,  and  thus  to  sink  and  die, 
Perchance  were  death  indeed ! — Constan- 
ts, turn! 

In  thy  dark  eyes  a power  like  light  doth  lie, 
Even  though  the  sounds  which  were  thy 
voice,  which  burn 

Between  thy  lips,  are  laid  to  sleep ; 

Within  thy  breath,  and  on  thy  hair,  like 
odor  it  is  yet, 

And  from  thy  touch  like  fire  doth  leap. 

Even  while  I write,  my  burning  cheeks  are 
wet — 

Alas,  that  the  torn  heart  can  bleed,  but  not 
forget ! 

A breathless  awe,  like  the  swift  change, 
Unseen  but  felt,  in  youthful  slumbers, 

Wild,  sweet,  but  uncommunicably  strange, 
Thou  breathest  now  in  fast  ascending  num- 
bers. 

The  cope  of  heaven  seems  rent  and  cloven 
By  the  enchantment  of  thy  strain ; 

And  on  my  shoulders  wings  are  woven, 

To  follow  its  sublime  career 

Beyond  the  mighty  moons  that  wane 
Upon  the  verge  of  nature’s  utmost  sphere, 
Till  the  world’s  shadowy  walls  are  past  and 
disappear. 

Her  voice  is  hovering  o’er  my  soul — it  lingers, 
O’ershadowing  it  with  soft  and  lulling 
wings ; 

The  blood  and  life  within  those  snowy  fingers 
Teach  witchcraft  to  the  instrumental 
strings. 

My  brain  is  wild,  my  breath  comes  quick — 
The  blood  is  listening  in  my  frame ; 

And  thronging  shadows,  fast  and  thick, 

Fall  on  my  overflowing  eyes ; 

My  heart  is  quivering  like  a flame ; 

As  morning  dew,  that  in  the  sunbeam  dies, 
I am  dissolved  in  these  consuming  ecstacies. 

I have  no  life,  Constantia,  now,  but  thee ; 
Whilst,  like  the  world-surrounding  air,  thy 
song 

Flows  on,  and  fills  all  things  with  melody. 
Now  is  thy  voice  a tempest,  swift  and 
strong, 


618 

On  which,  like  one  in  trance  upborne, 

Secure  o’er  rocks  and  waves  I sweep, 
Rejoicing  like  a cloud  of  morn. 

Now ’t  is  the  breath  of  summer  night, 
Which,  when  the  starry  waters  sleep, 

Round  western  isles,  with  incense-blossoms 
bright, 

Lingering,  suspends  my  soul  in  its  volup- 
tuous flight. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


ON  A LADY  SINGING. 

Oft  as  my  lady  sang  for  me 

That  song  of  the  lost  one  that  sleeps  by  the 
sea, 

Of  the  grave  on  the  rock,  and  the  cypress 
tree, 

Strange  was  the  pleasure  that  over  me 
stole, 

For  ’twas  made  of  old  sadness  that  lives  in 
my  soul. 

So  still  grew  my  heart  at  each  tender 

word 

That  the  pulse  in  my  bosom  scarcely 
stirred, 

And  I hardly  breathed,  but  only  heard ; 

Where  was  I ? — not  in  the  world  of  men, 

Until  she  awoke  me  with  silence  again. 

Like  the  smell  of  the  vine,  when  its  early 
bloom 

Sprinkles  the  green  lane  with  sunny  per- 
fume, 

Such  a delicate  fragrance  filled  the  room ! 

Whether  it  came  from  the  vine  without, 

Or  arose  from  her  presence,  I dwell  in 
doubt. 

Light  shadows  played  on  the  pictured 
wall 

From  the  maples  that  fluttered  outside  the 
hall, 

And  hindered  the  daylight — yet  ah!  not 
all; 

Too  little  for  that  all  the  forest  would  be — 

Such  a sunbeam  she  was,  and  is,  to  me ! 


614 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


When  my  sense  returned,  as  the  song  was 
o’er, 

I fain  would  have  said  to  her,  “Sing  it  once 
more ; ” 

But  soon  as  she  smiled  my  wish  I forbore : 
Music  enough  in  her  look  I found, 

And  the  hush  of  her  lip  seemed  sweet  as  the 
sound. 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 


A CANADIAN  BOAT  SONG. 

Et  remigem  cantus  hortatur. 

Quintilian. 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 
Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 

We  ’ll  sing  at  St.  Ann’s  our  parting  hymn. 
Eow,  brothers,  row ! the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight ’s  past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? — 

There  is  not  a breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl ! 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore 
O ! sweetly  we  ’ll  rest  our  weary  oar. 

Blow,  breezes,  blow ! the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight’s  past ! 

Utawa’s  tide ! this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 

Saint  of  this  green  isle,  hear  our  prayers — 

O ! grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow ! the  stream  runs  fast. 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight’s  past ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

EGYPTIAN  SERENADE. 

Sing  again  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young — 
When  there  were  but  you  and  I 
Underneath  the  summer  sky. 

Sing  the  song,  and  o’er  and  o’er, 
Though  I know  that  nevermore 
Will  it  seem  the  song  you  sung 
When  we  were  together  young. 

George  William  Curtis. 


WOMAN’S  YOICE. 

“ Her  voice  was  ever  low, 

Gentle  and  soft— an  excellent  thing  in  woman.” 

King  Lear. 

Not  in  the  swaying  of  the  summer  trees, 
When  evening  breezes  sing  their  vesper 
hymn — 

Not  in  the  minstrel’s  mighty  symphonies, 
Nor  ripples  breaking  on  the  river’s  brim, 

Is  earth’s  best  music ; these  may  have  awhile 
High  thoughts  in  happy  hearts,  and  carkiug 
cares  beguile. 

But  even  as  the  swallow’s  silken  wings, 
Skimming  the  water  of  the  sleeping  lake, 
Stir  the  still  silver  with  a hundred  rings — 
So  doth  one  sound  the  sleeping  spirit  wake 
To  brave  the  danger,  and  to  bear  the  harm— 
A low  and  gentle  voice — dear  woman’s  chief- 
est  charm. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is ! and  ever  lent 
To  truth  and  love,  and  meekness;  they 
who  own 

This  gift,  by  the  all-gracious  Giver  sent, 
Ever  by  quiet  step  and  smile  are  known ; 
By  kind  eyes  that  have  wept,  hearts  that 
have  sorrowed — 

By  patience  never  tired,  from  their  own  tri- 
als borrowed. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is — when  firsf  in  glad- 
ness 

A mother  looks  into  her  infant’s  eyes — 
Smiles  to  its  smiles,  and  saddens  to  its  sad- 
ness— 

Pales  at  its  paleness,  sorrows  at  its  cries ; 
Its  food  and  sleep,  and  smiles  and  little  joys— 
All  these  come  ever  blent  with  one  low  gen- 
tle voice. 

An  excellent  thing  it  is  vrhen  life  is  leaving — 
Leaving  with  gloom  and  gladness,  joys  and 
cares — 

The  strong  heart  failing,  and  the  high  soul 
grieving 

With  strangest  thoughts,  and  wild  unwont- 
fears  ; 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  HAY. 


615 


Then,  then  a woman’s  low  soft  sympathy 

Comes  like  an  angel’s  voice  to  teach  us  how 
to  die. 

But  a most  excellent  thing  it  is  in  youth, 
When  the  fond  lover  hears  the  loved  one’s 
tone, 

That  fears,  hut  longs,  to  syllable  the  truth — 
How  their  two  hearts  are  one,  and  she  his 
own; 

It  makes  sweet  human  music — 0 ! the  spells 

That  haunt  the  trembling  tale  a bright-eyed 
maiden  tells ! 

Edwin  Arnold. 


SONG. 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed — 
Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art’s  hid  causes  are  not  found, 
All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a look,  give  me  a face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a grace ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free — 
Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 
Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

Ben  Jonson. 


DELIGHT  IN  DISORDER. 

A sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a wantonness : 

A lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a fine  distraction — 

An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthralls  the  crimson  stomacher— 

A cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbons  to  flow  confusedly — 

A winning  wave,  deserving  note, 

In  the  tempestuous  petticoat — 

A careless  shoe  string,  in  whose  tie 
I see  a wild  civility — 

Do  more  bewitch  me  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

Bobekt  Hebbick. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  MAY. 

Hebe’s  a bank  with  rich  cowslips  and  cuckoo 
buds  strewn, 

To  exalt  your  bright  looks,  gentle  Queen  of 
the  May ! 

Here’s  a cushion  of  moss  for  your  delicate 
shoon, 

And  a woodbine  to  weave  you  a canopy 
gay. 

Here’s  a garland  of  red  maiden-roses  for 
you— 

Such  a delicate  wreath  is  for  beauty  alone ; 

Here’s  a golden  king-cup,  brimming  over 
with  dew, 

To  be  kissed  by  a lip  just  as  sweet  as  its 
own. 

Here  are  bracelets  of  pearl  from  the  fount  in 
the  dale, 

That  the  nymph  of  the  wave  on  your  wrists 
doth  bestow ; 

Here’s  a lily- wrought  scarf  your  sweet  blushes 
to  hide, 

Or  to  lie  on  that  bosom,  like  snow  upon 
snow. 

Here’s  a myrtle  enwreathed  with  a jessamine 
band, 

To  express  the  fond  twining  of  beauty  and 
youth ; 

Take  this  emblem  of  love  in  thy  exquisite 
hand, 

And  do  thou  sway  the  evergreen  sceptre 
of  Truth. 

Then  around  you  we’ll  dance,  and  around 
you  we’  11  sing — 

To  soft  pipe  and  sweet  tabor  we’  11  foot  it 
away; 

And  the  hills,  and  the  dales,  and  the  forests 
shall  ring, 

While  we  hail  you  our  lovely  young  Queen 
of  the  May. 

Geobob  Darley. 


J 


616 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


HEBE. 

I saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 

I saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending ; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 

That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bending. 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on — by  sweet  degrees, 

Joy’s  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 

Those  graces  were  that  seemed  grim  fates ; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o’er  me ; 
The  long  sought  secret’s  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood ; like  a lover, 

I sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp — 

The  beaker  fell ; the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up ; 

What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet’s  splinters  ? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup 

Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter’s  ? 

O spendthrift  haste ! await  the  gods ; 

Their  nectar  erowns  the  lips  of  Patience. 
Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 

And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon  her ; 
Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 

James  Kussell  Lowell. 


SONNET. 

’T  is  much  immortal  beauty  to  admire, 

But  more  immortal  beauty  to  withstand ; 
The  perfect  soul  can  overcome  desire, 

If  beauty  with  divine  delight  be  scanned ; 
For  what  is  beauty,  but  the  blooming  child 
Of  fair  Olympus,  that  in  night  must  end, 
And  be  for  ever  from  that  bliss  exiled, 

If  admiration  stand  too  much  its  friend  ? 




The  wind  may  be  enamored  of  a flower, 

The  ocean  of  the  green  and  laughing  shore, 
The  silver  lightning  of  a lofty  tower — 

But  must  not  with  too  near  a love  adore ; 

Or  flower,  and  margin,  and  cloud-capped  tow- 
er, 

Love  and  delight  shall  with  delight  devour ! 

Lord  Thtjelow. 


TO  MISTRESS  MARGARET  HUSSEY. 

Mekby  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower — 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 

With  solace  and  gladness, 

Much  mirth  and  no  madness, 

All  good  and  no  badness ; 

So  joyously, 

So  maidenly, 

So  womanly 
Her  demeaning — 

In  everything 
Far,  far  passing 
That  I can  indite, 

Or  suffice  to  write, 

Of  merry  Margaret, 

As  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon 
Or  hawk  of  the  tower ; 

As  patient  and  as  still, 

And  as  full  of  good  will, 

As  fair  Isiphil, 

Coliander, 

Sweet  Pomander, 

Good  Cassander ; 

Stedfast  of  thought, 

Well  made,  well  wrought; 

Far  may  be  sought 
Ere  you  can  find 
So  courteous,  so  kind, 

As  merry  Margaret, 

This  midsummer  flower, 

Gentle  as  falcon, 

Or  hawk  of  the  tower. 

John  Skelton. 


SONG. 


611 


WHO  IS  SYLVIA? 

Who  is  Sylvia  ? what  is  she, 

That  all  the  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise,  is  she ; 

The  heavens  such  grace  did  lend  her 
That  she  might  adored  be. 

Is  she  kind,  or  is  she  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness. 

Love  does  to  her  eyes  repair 
To  help  him  of  his  blindness — 

And,  being  helped,  inhabits  there. 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing 
That  Sylvia  is  excelling ; 

She  excels  each  mortal  thing 
Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling ; 

To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

Shakespeare. 


SHE  WALKS  IN  BEAUTY. 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 
And  all  that’s  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meets  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 

Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 

Or  softly  lightens  o’er  her  face — 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling  place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o’er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 


HERMIONE. 

Thou  hast  beauty  bright  and  fair, 
Manner  noble,  aspect  free, 

Eyes  that  are  untouched  by  care : 

What  then  do  we  ask  from  thee  ? 

Hermione , Hermione? 

Thou  hast  reason  quick  and  strong, 

Wit  that  envious  men  admire, 

And  a voice,  itself  a song ! 

What  then  can  we  still  desire  ? 

Hermione , Hermione? 

Something  thou  dost  want,  O queen ! 

(As  the  gold  doth  ask  alloy,) 

Tears — amid  thy  laughter  seen, 

Pity  mingling  with  thy  joy. 

This  is  all  we  ash  from  thee, 
Hermione,  Hermione! 

Barry  Cornwall, 


UPON  JULIA’S  RECOVERY. 

Dkoop,  droop  no  more,  or  hang  the  head, 
Ye  roses  almost  withered! 

New  strength  and  newer  purple  get, 

Each  here  declining  violet ! 

O primroses ! let  this  day  be 
A resurrection  unto  ye, 

And  to  all  flowers  allied  in  blood, 

Or  sworn  to  that  sweet  sisterhood. 

For  health  on  Julia’s  cheek  hath  shed 
Claret  and  cream  commingled; 

And  those  her  lips  do  now  appear 
As  beams  of  coral  but  more  clear. 

Eobert  Herrick. 


SONG. 

0 Lady,  leave  thy  silken  thread 
And  flowery  tapestrie — 

There’s  living  roses  on  the  bush, 

And  blossoms  on  the  tree. 

Stoop  where  thou  wilt,  thy  careless  hand 
Some  random  bud  will  meet ; 

Thou  canst  not  tread  but  thou  wilt  find 
The  daisy  at  thy  feet. 


Lord  Byron. 


618 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


’T  is  like  the  birthday  of  the  world. 

When  earth  was  horn  in  bloom ; 

The  light  is  made  of  many  dyes, 

The  air  is  all  perfume ; 

There’s  crimson  buds,  and  white  and  blue — 
The  very  rainbow  showers 

Have  turned  to  blossoms  where  they  fell, 
And  sown  the  earth  with  flowers. 

There’s  fairy  tulips  in  the  east — 

The  garden  of  the  sun ; 

The  very  streams  reflect  the  hues, 

And  blossom  as  they  run ; 

While  morn  opes  like  a crimson  rose, 

Still  wet  with  pearly  showers : 

Then,  lady,  leave  the  silken  thread 
Thou  twinest  into  flowers! 

Thomas  Hood. 


TO  A HIGHLAND  GIRL. 

Sweet  Highland  Girl ! a very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower ; 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head. 

And  these  gray  rocks ; that  household  lawn ; 
Those  trees — a veil  just  half  withdrawn ; 
This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 
A murmur  near  the  silent  lake ; 

This  little  hay,  a quiet  road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode — 

In  truth,  together  do  ye  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a dream — 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep ! 

But,  O fair  creature ! in  the  light 
Of  common  day  so  heavenly  bright — 

I bless  thee,  vision  as  thou  art, 

I bless  thee  with  a human  heart ; 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I am  far  away; 

For  never  saw  I mien  or  face 
In  which  more  plainly  I could  trace 
Benignity  and  homebred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 


Here,  scattered,  like  a random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress, 

And  maidenly  shamefacedness ; 

Thou  wear’st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a mountaineer : 

A face  with  gladness  overspread ; 

Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred ; 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays ; 

With  no  restraint,  hut  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech — 

A bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life ! 

So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind 
Thus  heating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a garland  cull 
For  thee,  who  art  so  beautiful? 

0 happy  pleasure ! here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell — 

Adopt  your  homely  ways  and  dress, 

A shepherd,  thou  a shepherdess ! 

But  I could  frame  a wish  for  thee 
More  like  a grave  reality.: 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a wave 
Of  the  wild  sea ; and  I would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighborhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see! 

Thy  elder  brother  I would  he, 

Thy  father — anything  to  thee ! 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven,  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place ! 

Joy  have  I had;  and,  going  hence, 

1 hear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes. 

Then  why  should  I he  loth  to  stir  ? 

I feel  this  place  was  made  for  her, 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past — 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I loth,  though  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl ! from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I grow  old. 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold, 


j 


TO  MY  SISTER. 


619 


As  I do  now,  the  cabin  small, 

The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall — 

And  thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  TWO  BRIDES. 

I saw  two  maids  at  the  kirk, 

And  both  were  fair  and  sweet — 

One  in  her  wedding  robe, 

And  one  in  her  winding-sheet. 

The  choristers  sang  the  hymn — 

The  sacred  rites  were  read ; 

And  one  for  life  to  Life, 

And  one  to  Death,  was  wed. 

They  were  borne  to  their  bridal  beds, 
In  loveliness  and  bloom — 

One  in  a merry  castle, 

The  other  a solemn  tomb. 

One  on  the  morrow  woke 
In  a world  of  sin  and  pain ; 

But  the  other  was  happier  far, 

And  never  awoke  again ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


‘SHE  WAS  A PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT.” 

She  was  a phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight : 
A lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a moment’s  ornament ; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 

Like  twilight’s,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn— 
A dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A spirit,  yet  a woman  too ! 


Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A creature,  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food — 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and 
smiles. 

And  now  I see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A traveller  between  life  and  death ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill : 
A perfect  woman,  nobly  planned, 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  MY  SISTER : 

WITH  A COPY  OF  “ SUPERNATURALISM  OF  NEW 
ENGLAND.” 

Dear  sister ! while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 

And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 
Should  stoop  to  boyhood’s  folly- 
I know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 
Of  clouded  melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes ! 
Swing  wide  the  moon-lit  gate  of  dreams ! 
Leave  free  once  more  the  land  which  teems 
With  wonders  and  romances ! 

Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly-masking  guise 
Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo ! once  again  our  feet  we  set 
On  still  green  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 
By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 


620 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


The  roots  of  spectral  beeches ; 

Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o’er 
Home’s  white-washed  wall  and  painted 
floor, 

And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 
Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 

Dear  heart ! — the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again ; 

And,  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death’s  funereal  sadness, 

Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 

And  lends  to  sober  manhood’s  gaze 
A glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 
A weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 

A long,  harsh  strife,  with  strong-willed 
men, 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 

To  pluck  a flower  from  childhood’s  clime, 
Or  listen,  at  life’s  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  morning ! 

Johjt  Gbeenxeaf  Whittiee. 


THE  OLD  MAID. 

Why  sits  she  thus  in  solitude?  Her  heart 
Seems  melting  in  her  eyes’  delicious  blue ; 

And  as  it  heaves,  her  ripe  lips  lie  apart, 

As  if  to  let  its  heavy  throbbings  through  ; 

In  her  dark  eye  a depth  of  softness  swells, 
Deeeper  than  that  her  careless  girlhood 
wore ; 

And  her  cheek  crimsons  with  the  hue  that 
tells 

The  rich,  fair  fruit  is  ripened  to  the  core. 

It  is  her  thirtieth  birthday ! With  a sigh 
Her  soul  hath  turned  from  youth’s  luxuri- 
ant bowers, 

And  her  heart  taken  up  the  last  sweet  tie 
That  measured  out  its  links  of  golden 
hours ! 


She  feels  her  inmost  soul  within  her  stir 
With  thoughts  too  wild  and  passionate  to 
speak ; 

Yet  her  full  heart — its  own  interpreter — 
Translates  itself  in  silence  on  her  cheek. 

Joy’s  opening  buds,  affection’s  glowing  flow- 
ers, 

Once  lightly  sprang  within  her  beaming 
track ; 

O,  life  was  beautiful  in  those  lost  hours ! 

And  yet  she  does  not  wish  to  wander  back ; 
No ! she  but  loves  in  loneliness  to  think 
On  pleasures  past,  though  never  more  to 
be ; 

Hope  links  her  to  the  future — but  the  link 
That  binds  her  to  the  past  is  memory. 

From  her  lone  path  she  never  turns  aside, 
Though  passionate  worshippers  before  her 
fall; 

Like  some  pure  planet  in  her  lonely  pride, 
She  seems  to  soar  and  beam  above  them  all. 
Not  that  her  heart  is  cold — emotions  new 
And  fresh  as  flowers  are  with  her  heart- 
strings knit ; 

And  sweetly  mournful  pleasures  wander 
through 

Her  virgin  soul,  and  softly  ruffle  it. 

For  she  hath  lived  with  heart  and  soul  alive 
To  all  that  makes  life  beautiful  and  fair ; 
Sweet  thoughts,  like  honey-bees,  have  made 
their  hive 

Of  her  soft  bosom-cell,  and  cluster  there. 
Yet  life  is  not  to  her  what  it  hath  been — 
Her  soul  hath  learned  to  look  beyond  its 
gloss; 

And  now  she  hovers,  like  a star,  between 
Her  deeds  of  love,  her  Saviour  on  the  cross ! 

Beneath  the  cares  of  earth  she  does  not  bow, 
Though  she  hath  ofttimes  drained  its  bit- 
ter cup ; 

But  ever  wanders  on  with  heavenward  brow, 
And  eyes  whose  lovely  lids  are  lifted  up. 
She  feels  that  in  that  lovelier,  happier  sphere 
Her  bosom  yet  will,  bird-like,  find  its  mate, 
And  all  the  joys  it  found  so  blissful  here 
Within  that  spirit-realm  perpetuate. 


MOTHER  MARGERY. 


Yet  sometimes  o’er  her  trembling  heart- 
strings thrill 

Soft  sighs — for  raptures  it  hath  ne’er  en- 
joyed ; 

And  then  she  dreams  of  love,  and  strives  to  fill 

With  wild  and  passionate  thoughts  the 
craving  void. 

And  thus  she  wanders  on — half  sad,  half 
blest — 

Without  a mate  for  the  pure,  lonely  heart 

That,  yearning,  throbs  within  her  virgin 
breast, 

Never  to  find  its  lovely  counterpart ! 

Amenta  B.  Welby. 


MOTHER  MARGERY. 

On  a bleak  ridge,  from  whose  granite  edges 
Sloped  the  rough  land  to  the  grisly  north ; 

And  whose  hemlocks,  clinging  to  the  ledges, 
Like  a thinned  banditti  staggered  forth — 

In  a crouching,  wormv-timbered  hamlet 
Mother  Margery  shivered  in  the  cold, 

I With  a tattered  robe  of  faded  camlet 

On  her  shoulders — crooked,  weak,  and  old. 

Time  on  her  had  done  his  cruel  pleasure ; 

For  her  face  was  very  dry  and  thin, 

And  the  records  of  his  growing  measure 
Lined  and  cross-lined  all  her  shrivelled  skin. 

Scanty  goods  to  her  had  been  allotted, 

Yet  her  thanks  rose  oftener  than  desire ; 

While  her  bony  fingers,  bent  and  knotted, 

Fed  with  withered  twigs  the  dying  fire. 

Raw  and  weary  were  the  northern  winters ; 
Winds  howled  piteously  around  her  cot, 

Or  with  rude  sighs  made  the  jarring  splinters 
Moan  the  misery  she  bemoaned  not. 

Drifting  tempests  rattled  at  her  windows, 
And  hung  snow-wreaths  around  her  naked 
bed ; 

While  the  wind-flaws  muttered  on  the  cinders, 
Till  the  last  spark  fluttered  and  was  dead. 

Life  had  fresher  hopes  when  she  was  younger, 
But  their  dying  wrung  out  no  complaints ; 

Chill,  and  penury,  and  neglect,  and  hunger — 
These  to  Margery  were  guardian  saints. 


621 

When  she  sat,  her  head  was,  prayer-like, 
bending ; 

When  she  rose,  it  rose  not  any  more  ; 
Faster  seemed  her  true  heart  graveward 
tending 

Than  her  tired  feet,  weak  and  travel-sore. 

She  was  mother  of  the  dead  and  scattered — 
Had  been  mother  of  the  brave  and  fair ; 
But  her  branches,  bough  by  bough,  were 
shattered, 

Till  her  torn  breast  was  left  dry  and 
bare. 

Yet  she  knew,  though  sadly  desolated, 

When  the  children  of  the  poor  depart 
Their  earth-vestures  are  but  sublimated, 

So  to  gather  closer  in  the  heart. 

With  a courage  that  had  never  fitted 
Words  to  speak  it  to  the  soul  it  blessed, 
She  endured,  in  silence  and  unpitied, 

Woes  enough  to  mar  a stouter  breast. 

Thus  was  born  such  holy  trust  within  her, 
That  the  graves  of  all  who  had  been  dear, 
To  a region  clearer  and  serener, 

Raised  her  spirit  from  our  chilly  sphere. 

They  were  footsteps  on  her  Jacob’s  ladder ; 

Angels  to  her  were  the  loves  and  hopes 
Which  had  left  her  purified,  but  sadder ; 

And  they  lured  her  to  the  emerald  slopes 
Of  that  heaven  where  anguish  never  flashes 
Her  red  fire-whips, — happy  land,  where 
flowers 

Blossom  over  the  volcanic  ashes 

Of  this  blighting,  blighted  world  of  ours ! 

All  her  power  was  a love  of  goodness ; 

All  her  wisdom  was  a mystic  faith 
That  the  rough  world’s  jargoning  and  rude- 
ness 

Turns  to  music  at  the  gate  of  death. 

So  she  walked  while  feeble  limbs  allowed 
her, 

Knowing  well  that  any  stubborn  grief 
She  might  meet  with  could  no  more  than 
crowd  her 

To  that  wall  whose  opening  was  relief. 


622 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


So  she  lived,  an  anchoress  of  sorrow, 

Lone  and  peaceful,  on  the  rocky  slope ; 

And,  when  burning  trials  came,  would  bor-  i 
row 

New  fire  of  them  for  the  lamp  of  hope. 
When  at  last  her  palsied  hand,  in  groping, 
Rattled  tremulous  at  the  grated  tomb, 
Heaven  flashed  round  her  joys  beyond  her 
hoping, 

And  her  young  soul  gladdened  into  bloom. 

George  S.  Burleigh. 


THE  NYMPH’S  SONG. 

Gextle  swain,  good  speed  befall  thee ; 

And  in  love  still  prosper  thou ! 

Future  times  shall  happy  call  thee, 
Though  thou  lie  neglected  now. 
Virtue’s  lovers  shall  commend  thee, 
And  perpetual  fame  attend  thee. 

Happy  are  these  woody  mountains, 

In  whose  shadows  thou  dost  hide ; 
And  as  happy  are  those  fountains 
By  whose  murmurs  thou  dost  hide : 
For  contents  are  here  excelling, 

More  than  in  a prince’s  dwelling. 

These  thy  flocks  do  clothing  bring  thee, 
And  thy  food  out  of  the  fields ; 

Pretty  songs  the  birds  do  sing  thee ; 

Sweet  perfumes  the  meadow  yields ; 
And  what  more  is  worth  the  seeing, 
Heaven  and  earth  thy  prospect  being  ? 

None  comes  hither  who  denies  thee 
Thy  contentments  for  despite ; 
Neither  any  that  envies  thee 
That  wherein  thou  dost  delight : 

Bat  all  happy  things  are  meant  thee, 
And  whatever  may  content  thee. 

Thy  affection  reason  measures, 

And  distempers  none  it  feeds ; 

Still  so  harmless  are  thy  pleasures 
That  no  other’s  grief  it  breeds ; 

And  if  night  beget  thee  sorrow, 

Seldom  stays  it  till  the  morrow. 


Why  do  foolish  men  so  vainly 
Seek  contentment  in  their  store, 

Since  they  may  perceive  so  plainly 
Thou  art  rich  in  being  poor — 

And  that  they  are  vexed  about  it, 

Whilst  thou  merry  art  without  it  ? 

Why  are  idle  brains  devising 
How  high  titles  may  be  gained, 

Since  by  those  poor  toys  despising 
Thou  hast  higher  things  obtained? 

For  the  man  who  scorns  to  crave  them 
Greater  is  than  they  that  have  them. 

If  all  men  could  taste  that  sweetness 
Thou  dost  in  thy  meanness  know, 

Kings  would  be  to  seek  where  greatness 
And  their  honors  to  bestow ; 

For  it  such  content  would  breed  them 
As  they  would  not  think  they  need  them. 

And  if  those  who  so  aspiring 
To  the  court  preferments  be, 

Knew  how  worthy  the  desiring 
Those  things  are  enjoyed  by  thee, 
Wealth  and  titles  would  hereafter 
Subjects  be  for  scorn  and  laughter. 

He  that  courtly  styles  affected 

Should  a May-Lord’s  honor  have — 

He  that  heaps  of  wealth  collected 
Should  be  counted  as  a slave ; 

And  the  man  with  few’st  things  cumbered 
With  the  noblest  should  be  numbered. 

Thou  their  folly  hast  discerned 
That  neglect  thy  mind  and  thee ; 

And  to  slight  them  thou  hast  learned, 

Of  what  title  e’er  they  be ; 

That  no  more  with  thee  obtaineth 
Than  with  them  thy  meanness  gaineth. 

All  their  riches,  honors,  pleasures, 

Poor  unworthy  trifles  seem, 

If  compared  with  thy  treasures — 

And  do  merit  no  esteem ; 

For  they  true  contents  provide  thee, 

And  from  them  can  none  divide  thee. 


SHAKESPEARE. 


623 


Whether  thralled  or  exiled, 

Whether  poor  or  rich  thou  he — 
Whether  praised  or  reviled, 

Not  a rush  it  is  to  thee ; 

This  nor  that  thy  rest  doth  win  thee, 

But  the  mind  which  is  within  thee. 

Then,  O why  so  madly  dote  we 
On  those  things  that  us  o’erload  ? 

Why  no  more  their  vainness  note  we, 

But  still  make  of  them  a god  ? 

For,  alas ! they  still  deceive  us, 

And  in  greatest  need  they  leave  us. 

Therefore  have  the  fates  provided 
Well,  thou  happy  swain,  for  thee, 

That  may’st  here  so  far  divided 
From  the  world’s  distractions  he. 

Thee  distemper  let  them  never, 

But  in  peace  continue  ever. 

In  these  lonely  groves  enjoy  thou 
That  contentment  here  begun ; 

And  thy  hours  so  pleased  employ  thou, 
Till  the  latest  glass  be  run. 

From  a fortune  so  assured 
By  no  temptings  be  allured. 

Much  good  do ’t  them,  with  their  glories, 
Who  in  courts  of  princes  dwell ; 

We  have  read  in  antique  stories 
How  some  rose  and  how  they  fell — 
And ’t  is  worthy  well  the  heeding, 

There ’s  like  end  where ’s  like  proceeding. 

Be  thou  still  in  thy  affection 
To  thy  noble  mistress  true  ; 

Let  her  never-matched  perfection 
Be  the  same  unto  thy  view ; 

And  let  never  other  beauty 
Make  thee  fail  in  love  or  duty. 

For  if  thou  shalt  not  estranged 
From  thy  course  professed  be, 

But  remain  for  aye  unchanged, 

Nothing  shall  have  power  on  thee. 
Those  that  slight  thee  now  shall  love  thee, 
And  in  spite  of  spite  approve  thee. 


So  those  virtues  now  neglected 
To  be  more  esteemed  will  come ; 

Yea,  those  toys  so  much  affected 
Many  shall  be  wooed  from ; 

And  the  golden  age  deplored 
Shall  by  some  be  thought  restored. 

George  Wither. 


ON  ANACREON. 

Aeotjnd  the  tomb,  O bard  divine, 

Where  soft  thy  hallowed  brow  reposes, 

Long  may  the  deathless  ivy  twine, 

And  Summer  pour  her  waste  of  roses ! 

And  many  a fount  shall  there  distil, 

And  many  a rill  refresh  the  flowers ; 

But  wine  shall  gush  in  every  rill, 

And  every  fount  yield  milky  showers. 

Thus — Shade  of  him  whom  nature  taught 
To  tune  his  lyre  and  soul  to  pleasure — 

Who  gave  to  love  his  warmest  thought, 

Who  gave  to  love  his  fondest  measure — 

Thus,  after  death  if  spirits  feel 
Thou  may’  st  from  odors  round  thee  stream- 
ing, 

A pulse  of  past  enjoyment  steal, 

And  live  again  in  blissful  dreaming. 

Antipatee  of  Sidon,  (Greek.) 
Paraphrase  of  Thomas  Moore. 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  THE  ADMIRABLE 
DRAMATIC  POET  W.  SHAKESPEARE. 

Wiiat  needs  my  Shakespeare  for  his  honored 
bones — 

The  labor  of  an  age  in  piled  stones  ? 

Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  liid 
Under  a starry-pointing  pyramid? 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need’st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy 
name? 

Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a live-long  monument. 


624 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


For  whilst  to  th’  shame  of  slow-endeavoring 
art 

Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  hook 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression 
took, 

Then  thou,  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving, 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiv- 
ing; 

And,  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie 
That  kings  for  such  a tomb  would  wish  to  die. 

John  Milton. 


SHAKESPEARE. 

How  little  fades  from  earth  when  sink  to  rest 

The  hours  and  cares  that  move  a great  man’s 
breast ! 

Though  nought  of  all  we  saw  the  grave  may 
spare, 

His  life  pervades  the  world’s  impregnate  air ; 

Though  Shakespeare’s  dust  beneath  our  foot- 
steps lies, 

His  spirit  breathes  amid  his  native  skies ; 

With  meaning  won  from  him  for  ever  glows 

Each  air  that  England  feels,  and  star  it 
knows ; 

His  whispered  words  from  many  a mother’s 
voice 

Can  make  her  sleeping  child  in  dreams  re- 
joice ; 

And  gleams  from  spheres  he  first  conjoined 
to  earth 

Are  blent  with  rays  of  each  new  morning’s 
birth. 

Amid  the  sights  and  tales  of  common  things, 

Leaf,  flower,  and  bird,  and  wars,  and  deaths 
of  kings, — 

Of  shore,  and  sea,  and  nature’s  daily  round, 

Of  life  that  tills,  and  tombs  that  load,  the 
ground, 

His  visions  mingle,  swell,  command,  pace  by, 

And  haunt  with  living  presence  heart  and  eye ; 

And  tones  from  him,  by  other  bosoms  caught, 

Awaken  flush  and  stir  of  mounting  thought ; 

And  the  long  sigh,  and  deep  impassioned 
thrill, 

Rouse  custom’s  trance  and  spur  the  faltering 
will. 


Above  the  goodly  land,  more  his  than  ours, 

He  sits  supreme,  enthroned  in  skyey  towers ; 

And  sees  the  heroic  brood  of  his  creation 

Teach  larger  life  to  his  ennobled  nation. 

0 shaping  brain ! O flashing  fancy’s  hues ! 

0 boundless  heart,  kept  fresh  by  pity’s  dews! 

0 wit  humane  and  blithe!  O sense  sublime! 

For  each  dim  oracle  of  mantled  Time ! 

Transcendant  Form  of  Han!  in  whom  we 
read 

Mankind’s  whole  tale  of  Impulse,  Thought 
and  Deed ! 

Amid  the  expanse  of  years,  beholding  thee, 

We  know  how  vast  our  world  of  life  may  be ; 

Wherein,  perchance,  with  aims  as  pure  as 
thine, 

Small  tasks  and  strengths  may  be  no  less  di- 
vine. 

John  Steeling. 


LINES  ON  THE  MERMAID  TAVERN. 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 

Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host’s  Canary  wine  ? 

Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison  ? O generous  food ! 

Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 

Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I have  heard  that  on  a day 
Mine  host’s  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer’s  old  quill 
To  a sheepskin  gave  the  story, — 

Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 

And  pledging  with  contented  smack, 
The  Mermaid  in  the  zodiac. 

Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone, 

What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 

Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 

Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 

John  Keats. 


THE  SHEPHERD’S  HUNTING. 


625 


AN  ODE— TO  HIMSELF. 

Where  dost  thou  careless  lie 
Buried  in  ease  and  sloth  ? 

Knowledge  that  sleeps,  doth  die : 

And  this  security, 

It  is  the  common  moth 
That  eats  on  wits  and  arts,  and  so  destroys 
them  both. 

Are  all  the  Aonian  springs 
Dried  up  ? lies  Thespia  waste  ? 

Doth  Clarius’  harp  want  strings, 

That  not  a nymph  now  sings? 

Or  droop  they  as  disgraced 
To  see  their  seats  and  bowers  by  chattering 
pies  defaced  ? 

If  hence  thy  silence  be, 

As ’t  is  too  just  a cause — 

Let  this  thought  quicken  thee ; 

Minds  that  are  great  and  free 
Should  not  on  fortune  pause ; 

’T  is  crown  enough  to  virtue  still,  her  own 
applause. 

What  though  the  greedy  fry 
Be  taken  with  false  baits 
Of  worded  balladry, 

And  think  it  poesy  ? 

They  die  with  their  conceits, 

And  only  piteous  scorn  upon  their  folly 
waits. 

Then  take  in  hand  thy  lyre, 

Strike  in  thy  proper  strain ; 

With  Japhet’s  line  aspire 
Sol’s  chariot  for  new  fire 
To  give  the  world  again; 

Who  aided  him,  will  thee,  the  issue  of 
Jove’s  brain. 

And  since  our  dainty  age 
Cannot  endure  reproof, 

Make  not  thyself  a page 
To  that  strumpet,  the  stage ; 

But  sing  high  and  aloof 
Safe  from  the  wolf’s  black  jaw,  and  the 
dull  ass’s  hoof. 

Ben  Jonson. 


THE  SHEPHERD’S  HUNTING. 

AN  ECLOGUE. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

PhilareU  on  Willy  calls , 

To  sing  out  his  pastorals  ; 

Warrants  fame,  shall  grace  his  rhymes, 

’ Spite  of  envy  and  the  times; 

And  shews  how  in  care  he  uses 
To  take  comfort  from  his  Muses. 

Philarete ; Willy. 

PHILARETE. 

Prythee,  Willy!  tell  me  this — 

What  new  accident  there  is 
That  thou,  once  the  blithest  lad, 

Art  become  so  wond’rous  sad, 

And  so  careless  of  thy  quill, 

As  if  thou  hadst  lost  thy  skill  ? 

Thou  wert  wont  to  charm  thy  flocks. 
And  among  the  massy  rocks 
Hast  so  cheered  me  with  thy  song 
That  I have  forgot  my  wrong. 
Something  hath  thee  surely  crost, 
That  thy  old  wont  thou  hast  lost. 

Tell  me — have  I ought  mis-said, 

That  hath  made  thee  ill-apaid  ? 

Hath  some  churl  done  thee  a spite  ? 
Dost  thou  miss  a lamb  to-night? 
Frowns  thy  fairest  shepherd’s  lass? 
Or  how  comes  this  ill  to  pass  ? 

Is  there  any  discontent 
Worse  than  this  my  banishment? 

Willy. 

Why,  doth  that  so  evil  seem 
That  thou  nothing  worse  dost  deem  ? 
Shepherds  there  full  many  he 
That  will  change  contents  with  thee ; 
Those  that  choose  their  walks  at  will, 
On  the  valley  or  the  hill — 

Or  those  pleasures  boast  of  can 
Groves  or  fields  may  yield  to  man — 
Never  come  to  know  the  rest, 
Wherewithal  thy  mind  is  blest. 

Many  a one  that  oft  resorts 
To  make  up  the  troop  at  sports, 


40 


626 


POEMS  OP  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


And  in  company  some  while 
Happens  to  strain  forth  a smile, 

Feels  more  want  and  outward  smart, 
And  more  inward  grief  of  heart, 
Than  this  place  can  bring  to  thee, 
While  thy  mind  remaineth  free. 

Thou  bewail’st  my  want  of  mirth — 
But  what  find’st  thou  in  this  earth 
Wherein  aught  may  be  believed 
Worth  to  make  me  joyed  or  grieved? 
And  yet  feel  I,  naitheless, 

Part  of  both  I must  confess. 
Sometime  I of  mirth  do  borrow- 
Otherwhile  as  much  of  sorrow ; 

But  my  present  state  is  such 
As  nor  joy  nor  grieve  I much. 

PmLAEETE. 

Why  hath  Willy  then  so  long 
Thus  forborne  his  wonted  song  ? 
Wherefore  doth  he  now  let  fall 
His  well-tuned  pastoral, 

And  my  ears  that  music  bar 
Which  I more  long  after  far 
Than  the  liberty  I want  ? 

WILLY. 

That  were  very  much  to  grant. 

But  doth  this  hold  alway,  lad — 
Those  that  sing  not  must  be  sad  ? 
Didst  thou  ever  that  bird  hear 
Sing  well  that  sings  all  the  year? 
Tom  the  piper  doth  not  play 
Till  he  wears  his  pipe  away — 
There’s  a time  to  slack  the  string, 
And  a time  to  leave  to  sing. 

PBILABETE. 

Yea!  but  no  man  now  is  still 
That  can  sing  or  tune  a quill. 

How  to  chaunt  it  were  but  reason — 
Song  and  music  are  in  season. 

How,  in  this  sweet  jolly  tide, 

Is  the  Earth  in  all  her  pride ; 

The  fair  lady  of  the  May, 

Trimmed  up  in  her  best  array, 

Hath  invited  all  the  swains, 

With  the  lasses  of  the  plains, 

To  attend  upon  her  sport 
At  the  places  of  resort. 


Coridon,  with  his  bold  rout, 

Hath  already  been  about 
For  the  elder  shepherd’s  dole, 

And  fetched  in  the  summer-pole ; 

Whilst  the  rest  have  built  a bower 
To  defend  them  from  a shower — 

Coiled  so  close,  with  boughs  all  green, 
Titan  cannot  pry  between. 

How  the  dairy  wenches  dream 
Of  their  strawberries  and  cream ; 

And  each  doth  herself  advance 
To  be  taken  in  to  dance ; 

Every  one  that  knows  to  sing 
Fits  him  for  his  carolling ; 

So  do  those  that  hope  for  meed 
Either  by  the  pipe  or  reed ; 

And,  though  I am  kept  away, 

I do  hear,  this  very  day, 

Many  learned  grooms  do  wend 
For  the  garlands  to  contend ; 

Which  a nymph,  that  hight  Desert, 

Long  a stranger  in  this  part, 

With  her  own  fair  hand  hath  wrought — 
A rare  work,  they  say,  past  thought, 

As  appeareth  by  the  name, 

For  she  calls  them  wreaths  of  Fame. 
She  hath  set  in  their  due  place 
Every  flower  that  may  grace ; 

And  among  a thousand  moe, 

Whereof  some  but  serve  for  show, 

She  hath  wove  in  Daphne’s  tree, 

That  they  may  not  blasted  be ; 

Which  with  Time  she  edged  about, 

Lest  the  work  should  ravel  out ; 

And  that  it  might  wither  never, 
Intermixed  it  with  Live- ever. 

These  are  to  be  shared  among 
Those  that  do  excel  for  song, 

Or  their  passions  can  rehearse 
In  the  smooth’st  and  sweetest  verse. 
Then  for  those  among  the  rest 
That  can  play  and  pipe  the  best, 

There’s  a kidling  with  the  dam, 

A fat  wether  and  a lamb. 

And  for  those  that  leapen  far, 

Wrestle,  run,  and  throw  the  bar, 

There’s  appointed  guerdons  too : 

He  that  best  the  first  can  do 
Shall  for  his  reward  be  paid 
With  a sheep-hook,  fair  inlaid 


THE  SHEPHERD’S  HUNTING. 


627 


With  fine  bone  of  a strange  beast 
That  men  bring  out  of  the  West; 
For  the  next  a scrip  of  red, 
Tasselled  with  fine  colored  thread ; 
There’s  prepared  for  their  meed 
That  in  running  make  most  speed, 
Or  the  cunning  measures  foot, 

Cups  of  turned  maple-root, 
Whereupon  the  skilful  man 
Hath  engraved  the  loves  of  Pan ; 
And  the  last  hath  for  his  due 
A fine  napkin  wrought  with  blue. 
Then,  my  Willy,  why  art  thou 
Careless  of  thy  merit  now  ? 

What  dost  thou  here,  with  a wight 
That  is  shut  up  from  delight 
In  a solitary  den, 

As  not  fit  to  live  with  men  ? 

Go,  my  Willy ! get  thee  gone — 
Leave  me  in  exile  alone ; 

Hie  thee  to  that  merry  throng, 

And  amaze  them  with  thy  song ! 
Thou  art  young,  yet  such  a lay 
Never  graced  the  month  of  May, 
As,  if  they  provoke  thy  skill, 

Thou  canst  fit  unto  thy  quill. 

I with  wonder  heard  thee  sing 
At  our  last  year’s  revelling. 

Then  I with  the  rest  was  free, 
When,  unknown,  I noted  thee, 

And  perceived  the  ruder  swains 
Envy  thy  far  sweeter  strains. 

Yea,  I saw  the  lasses  cling 
Round  about  thee  in  a ring, 

As  if  each  one  jealous  were 
Any  but  herself  should  hear ; 

And  I know  they  yet  do  long 
For  the  res’due  of  thy  song. 

Haste  thee  then  to  sing  it  forth ; 
Take  the  benefit  of  worth ; 

And  Desert  will  sure  bequeath 
Fame’s  fair  garland  for  thy  wreath. 
Hie  thee,  Willy  I hie  away. 

WILLY. 

Phila ! rather  let  me  stay, 

And  be  desolate  with  thee, 

Than  at  those  their  revels  be. 
Nought  such  is  my  skill,  I wis, 

As  indeed  thou  deem’st  it  is ; 


But  whate’er  it  be,  I must 
Be  content,  and  shall,  I trust. 

For  a song  I do  not  pass 
’Mongst  my  friends ; but  what,  alas ! 
Should  I have  to  do  with  them 
That  my  music  do  contemn? 

Some  there  are,  as  well  I wot, 

That  the  same  yet  favor  not ; 

Yet  I cannot  well  avow 
They  my  carols  disallow ; 

But  such  malice  I have  spied, 

’T  is  as  much  as  if  they  did. 

PHILAEETE. 

Willy ! what  may  those  men  be 
Are  so  ill  to  malice  thee  ? 

WILLY. 

Some  are  worthy- well  esteemed ; 

Some  without  worth,  are  so  deemed; 
Others  of  so  base  a spirit 
They  have  nor  esteem  nor  merit 

PHILAEETE. 

What’s  the  wrong  ? . . . . 

WILLY. 

A slight  offence, 

Wherewithal  I can  dispense ; 

But  hereafter,  for  their  sake, 

To  myself  I ’ll  music  make. 

PHILAEETE. 

What,  because  some  clown  offends, 
Wilt  thou  punish  all  thy  friends? 

WILLY. 

Do  not,  Phil ! misunderstand  me — 
Those  that  love  me  may  command  me  * 
But  thou  know’st  I am  but  young, 

And  the  pastoral  I sung 
Is  by  some  supposed  to  be, 

By  a strain,  too  high  for  me ; 

So  they  kindly  let  me  gain 
Not  my  labor  for  my  pain. 

Trust  me,  I do  wonder  why 
They  should  me  my  own  deny. 

Though  I ’m  young,  I scorn  to  flit 
On  the  wings  of  borrowed  wit ; 

I ’ll  make  my  own  feathers  rear  me, 
Whither  others  cannot  bear  me. 


628 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Yet  I ’ll  keep  my  skill  in  store, 

Till  I ’ve  seen  some  winters  more. 

PHILAEETE. 

Bnt  in  earnest  mean’st  thou  so? — 

Then  thou  art  not  wise,  I trow : 

Better  shall  advise  thee  Pan, 

For  thou  dost  not  rightly  then; 

That ’s  the  ready  way  to  blot 
All  the  credit  thou  hast  got. 

Rather  in  thy  age’s  prime 
Get  another  start  of  Time ; 

Ajid  make  those  that  so  fond  be, 

Spite  of  their  own  dulness,  see 
That  the  sacred  Muses  can 
Make  a child  in  years  a man. 

It  is  known  what  thou  canst  do ; 

For  it  is  not  long  ago, 

When  that  Cuddy,  thou  and  I, 

Each  the  other’s  skill  to  try, 

At  Saint  Dunstan’s  charmed  well, 

As  some  present  there  can  tell, 

Sang  upon  a sudden  theme, 

Sitting  by  the  crimson  stream ; 

Where  if  thou  didst  well  or  no 
Yet  remains  the  song  to  show. 

Much  experience  more  I ’ve  had 
Of  thy  skill,  thou  happy  lad ; 

And  would  make  the  world  to  know  it, 
But  that  time  will  further  show  it. 
Envy  makes  their  tongues  now  run, 
More  than  doubt  of  what  is  done  ; 

For  that  needs  must  be  thine  own, 

Or  to  be  some  other’s  known ; 

But  how  then  will ’t  suit  unto 
What  thou  shalt  hereafter  do  ? 

Or  I wonder  where  is  he 
Would  with  that  song  part  with  thee ! 
Kay,  were  there  so  mad  a swain 
Could  such  glory  sell  for  gain, 

Phoebus  would  not  have  combined 
That  gift  with  so  base  a mind. 

Never  did  the  Nine  impart 
The  sweet  secrets  of  their  art 
Unto  any  that  did  scorn 
We  should  see  their  favors  worn. 
Therefore,  unto  those  that  say 
Were  they  pleased  to  sing  a lay 
They  could  do ’t,  and  will  not  tho’ 
This  I speak,  for  this  I know — 


None  e’er  drank  the  Thespian  spring, 
And  knew  how,  but  he  did  sing; 

For,  that  once  infused  in  man, 

Makes  him  shew ’t,  do  what  he  nan ; 
Nay,  those  that  do  only  sip, 

Or  but  e’en  their  fingers  dip 
In  that  sacred  fount,  poor  elves ! 

Of  that  brood  will  show  themselves. 
Yea,  in  hope  to  get  them  fame, 

They  will  speak,  though  to  their  shame. 
Let  those,  then,  at  thee  repine 
That  hy  their  wits  measure  thine ; 
Needs  those  songs  must  be  thine  own, 
And  that  one  day  will  be  known. 

That  poor  imputation,  too, 

I myself  do  undergo ; 

But  it  will  appear,  ere  long, 

That ’t  was  envy  sought  our  wrong, 
Who,  at  twice  ten,  have  sung  more 
Than  some  will  do  at  four  score. 

Cheer  thee,  honest  Willy ! then, 

And  begin  thy  song  again. 

WILLY. 

Fain  I would ; but  I do  fear, 

When  again  my  lines  they  hear, 

If  they  yield  they  are  my  rhymes, 

They  will  feign  some  other  crimes ; 
And ’t  is  no  safe  vent’ring  by 
Where  we  see  Detraction  lie ; 

For,  do  what  I can,  I doubt 
She  will  pick  some  quarrel  out ; 

And  I oft  have  heard  defended 
Little  said  is  soon  amended. 

PHILAEETE. 

See’st  thou  not,  in  clearest  days 
Oft  thick  fogs  cloud  Heaven’s  rays  ? 
And  that  vapors,  which  do  breathe 
From  the  Earth’s  gross  womb  beneath, 
Seem  unto  us  with  black  steams 
To  pollute  the  sun’s  bright  beams — 
And  yet  vanish  into  air, 

Leaving  it,  unblemished,  fair  ? 

So,  my  Willy,  shall  it  be 

With  Detraction’s  breath  on  thee — 

It  shall  never  rise  so  high 
As  to  stain  thy  poesy. 

As  that  sun  doth  oft  exhale 
Vapors  from  each  rotten  vale, 


f 


THE  SHEPHERD’S  HUNTING.  629 


Poesy  so  sometimes  drains 
Gross  conceits  from  muddy  brains — 
Mists  of  envy,  fogs  of  spite, 

'Twixt  men’s  judgments  and  her  light ; 
But  so  much  her  power  may  do 
That  she  can  dissolve  them  too. 

If  thy  verse  do  bravely  tower, 

As  she  makes  wing  she  gets  power ; 

Yet  the  higher  she  doth  soar 
She ’s  affronted  still  the  more, 

Till  she  to  the  high’st  hath  past ; 

Then  she  rests  with  Fame  at  last. 

Let  nought,  therefore,  thee  affright, 

But  make  forward  in  thy  flight. 

For,  if  I could  match  thy  rhyme, 

To  the  very  stars  I ’d  climb ; 

There  begin  again,  and  fly 
Till  I reached  eternity. 

But,  alas ! my  Muse  is  slow — 

For  thy  place  she  flags  too  low ; 

Yea — the  more ’s  her  hapless  fate — 

Her  short  wings  were  dipt  of  late ; 

And  poor  I,  her  fortune  ruing, 

And  myself  put  up  a-mewing. 

But  if  I my  cage  can  rid, 

I ’ll  fly  where  I never  did ; 

And  though  for  her  sake  I’m  crost, 
Though  my  best  hopes  I have  lost, 

And  knew  she  would  make  my  trouble 
Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double, 

I should  love  and  keep  her  too, 

’Spite  of  all  the  world  could  do. 

For,  though  banished  from  my  flocks, 
And  confined  within  these  rocks, 

Here  I waste  away  the  light, 

And  consume  the  sullen  night, 

She  doth  for  my  comfort  stay, 

And  keeps  many  cares  away. 

Though  I miss  the  flow’ry  fields, 

With  those  sweets  the  spring -tide 
yields — 

Though  I may  not  see  these  groves 
Where  the  shepherds  chaunt  their  loves, 
And  the  lasses  more  excel 
Than  the  sweet-voiced  Philomel — 
Though  of  all  those  pleasures  past 
Nothing  now  remains  at  last 
But  remembrance,  poor  relief, 

That  more  makes  than  mends  my  grief— 
She ’s  my  mind’s  companion  still, 

Maugre  envy’s  evil  will ; 


Whence  she  should  be  driven  too, 

Were ’t  in  mortal’s  power  to  do. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 
Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow, 

Makes  the  desolatdlst  place 
To  her  presence  be  a grace, 

And  the  blackest  discontents 
To  be  pleasing  ornaments. 

In  my  former  days  of  bliss 
Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this — 

That  from  every  thing  I saw 
I could  some  invention  draw, 

And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height 
Through  the  meanest  object’s  sight; 

By  the  murmur  of  a spring, 

Or  the  least  bough’s  rusteling — 

By  a daisy,  whose  leaves,  spread, 

Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed — 

Or  a shady  bush  or  tree, 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me 
Than  all  nature’s  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man. 

By  her  help  I also  now 
Make  this  churlish  place  allow 
Some  things  that  may  sweeten  gladness 
In  the  very  gall  of  sadness : 

The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade 
That  these  hanging-vaults  have  made ; 
The  strange  music  of  the  waves, 

Beating  on  these  hollow  caves ; 

This  black  den,  which  rocks  emboss, 
Overgrown  with  eldest  moss ; 

The  rude  portals  that  give  light 
More  to  terror  than  delight ; 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 

Walled  about  with  disrespect; — 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 

A fit  object  for  despair, 

She  hath  taught  me,  by  her  might, 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore,  thou  best  earthly  bliss ! 

I will  cherish  thee  for  this. 

Poesy,  thou  sweet’st  content 
That  e’er  Heaven  to  mortals  lent ! 
Though  they  as  a trifle  leave  thee 
Whose  dull  thoughts  cannot  conceive 
thee — 

Though  thou  be  to  them  a scorn 
That  to  nought  but  earth  are  born — 

Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
Than  I am  in  love  with  thee ; 


630  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Though  our  "wise  ones  call  thee  madness, 
Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness 
If  I love  not  thy  madd’st  fits 
More  than  all  their  greatest  wits ; 

And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy, 

Do  account  thy  raptures  folly, 

Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 
What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them. 

0 high  power ! that  oft  doth  carry 

Men  above 

WILLY. 

. . . . Good  Philarete,  tarry ! 

1 do  fear  thou  wilt  be  gone 
Quite  above  my  reach  anon. 

The  kind  flames  of  poesy 

Have  now  borne  thy  thoughts  so  high 
That  they  up  in  heaven  be, 

And  have  quite  forgotten  me. 

Call  thyself  to  mind  again — 

Are  these  raptures  for  a swain 
That  attends  on  lowly  sheep, 

And  with  simple  herds  doth  keep  ? 

PHILARETE. 

Thanks,  my  Willy ! I had  run 
Till  that  Time  had  lodged  the  sun, 

If  thou  hadst  not  made  me  stay : 

But  thy  pardon  here  I pray ; 

Loved  Apollo’s  sacred  sire 
Had  raised  up  my  spirits  higher, 
Through  the  love  of  poesy, 

Than  indeed  they  use  to  fly. 

But  as  I said  I say  still — 

If  that  I had  Willy’s  skill 
Envy  nor  Detraction’s  tongue 
Should  e’er  make  me  leave  my  song ; 
But  I ’d  sing  it  every  day, 

Till  they  pined  themselves  away. 

Be  thou  then  advised  in  this, 

Which  both  just  and  fitting  is — 

Finish  what  thou  hast  begun, 

Or  at  least  still  forward  run. 

Hail  and  thunder  ill  he  ’ll  bear 
That  a blast  of  wind  doth  fear ; 

And  if  words  will  thus  affray  thee, 
Prythee  how  will  deeds  dismay  thee  ? 
Do  not  think  so  rathe  a song 
Can  pass  through  the  vulgar  throng, 
And  escape  without  a touch — 

Or  that  they  can  hurt  it  much. 


Frosts  we  see  do  nip  that  thing 
Which  is  forward’st  in  the  spring ; 

Yet  at  last,  for  all  such  lets, 

Somewhat  of  the  rest  it  gets ; 

And  I ’m  sure  that  so  mayst  thou. 
Therefore,  my  kind  Willy,  now, 

Since  thy  folding-time  draws  on, 

And  I see  thou  must  be  gone, 

Thee  I earnestly  beseech 
To  remember  this  my  speech, 

And  some  little  counsel  take, 

For  Philarete  his  sake ; 

And  I more  of  this  will  say, 

If  thou  come  next  holiday. 

Geobge  Withes. 


COWPER’S  GRAVE. 

I will  invite  thee,  from  thy  envious  hearse 
To  rise,  and  ’bout  the  world  thy  beams  to  spread. 
That  we  may  see  there ’s  brightness  in  the  dead. 

Habrixgtox. 

It  is  a place  where  poets  crowned 
May  feel  the  heart’s  decaying — 

It  is  a place  where  happy  saints 
May  weep  amid  their  praying ; 

Yet  let  the  grief  and  humbleness, 

As  low  as  silence,  languish — 

Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 
To  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 

O poets ! from  a maniac’s  tongue 
Was  poured  the  deathless  singing! 

0 Christians ! at  your  cross  of  hope 
A hopeless  hand  was  clinging ! 

0 men ! this  man,  in  brotherhood, 

Your  weary  paths  beguiling, 

Groaned  inly  while  he  taught  you  peace, 
And  died  while  ye  were  smiling ! 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
Through  dimming  tears  his  story — 
How  discord  on  the  music  fell, 

And  darkness  on  the  glory — 

And  how,  when  one  by  one,  sweet  sounds 
And  wandering  lights  departed, 

He  wore  no  less  a loving  face, 

Because  so  broken-hearted — 


COWPER’S  GRAVE. 


631 


He  shall  be  strong  to  sanctify 
The  poet’s  high  vocation, 

And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 
In  meeker  adoration ; 

Nor  ever  shall  he  be  in  praise 
By  wise  or  good  forsaken — 

Named  softly,  as  the  household  name 
Of  one  whom  God  hath  taken ! 

With  sadness  that  is  calm,  not  gloom, 

I learn  to  think  upon  him ; 

With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness, 

On  God  whose  heaven  hath  won  him — 
Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud 
Toward  his  love  to  blind  him ; 

But  gently  led  the  blind  along 

Where  breath  and  bird  could  find  him ; 

And  wrought  within  his  shattered  brain 
Such  quick  poetic  senses 
As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars 
Harmonious  influences ! 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass, 

His  own  did  calmly  number ; 

And  silent  shadow  from  the  trees 
Bell  o’er  him  like  a slumber. 

The  very  world,  by  God’s  constraint, 
From  falsehood’s  chill  removing, 

Its  women  and  its  men  became, 

Beside  him,  true  and  loving! — 

And  timid  hares  were  drawn  from  woods 
To  share  his  home-caresses, 

Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes 
With  sylvan  tendernesses. 

But  while  in  blindness  he  remained 
Unconscious  of  the  guiding, 

And  things  provided  came  without 
The  sweet  sense  of  providing, 

He  testified  this  solemn  truth, 

Though  frenzy  desolated — 

Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfy, 

When  only  God  created  ! 

Like  a sick  child  that  knoweth  not 
His  mother  while  she  blesses, 

And  droppeth  on  his  burning  brow 
The  coolness  of  her  kisses ; 


That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around — 

“ My  mother ! where ’s  my  mother  ? ” — 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  looks 
Could  come  from  any  other — 

The  fever  gone,  with  leaps  of  heart 
He  sees  her  bending  o’er  him ; 

Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love, 

Th’  unweary  love  she  bore  him ! 

Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream 
His  life’s  long  fever  gave  him, 

Beneath  these  deep  pathetic  eyes 
Which  closed  in  death  to  save  him ! 

Thus ! O,  not  thus ! no  type  of  earth 
Could  image  that  awaking, 

Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant 
Of  seraphs,  round  him  breaking — 

Or  felt  the  new  immortal  throb 
Of  soul  from  body  parted ; 

But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew 
u My  Saviour ! not  deserted ! ” 

Deserted ! who  hath  dreamt  that  when 
The  cross  in  darkness  rested, 

Upon  the  victim’s  hidden  face 
No  love  was  manifested? 

What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have  e’er 
Th’  atoning  drops  averted — 

What  tears  have  washed  them  from  the 
soul — 

That  one  should  be  deserted  ? 

Deserted ! God  could  separate 
From  His  own  essence  rather ; 

And  Adam’s  sins  have  swept  between 
The  righteous  Son  and  Father — 

Yea!  once,  Immanuel’s  orphaned  cry 
His  universe  hath  shaken — 

It  went  up  single,  echoless, 

“My  God,  I am  forsaken!  ” 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy  lips 
Amid  His  lost  creation, 

That  of  the  lost  no  son  should  use 
Those  words  of  desolation ; 

That  earth’s  worst  frenzies,  marring  hope, 
Should  mar  not  hope’s  fruition ; 

And  I,  on  Cowper’s  grave,  should  see 
His  rapture,  in  a vision ! 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


632 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  VISION". 

DIT AN  FIRST. 

The  son  had  closed  the  winter  day, 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play, 

An’  hungered  maukin  ta’en  her  way 
To  kail-yards  green, 

While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 
Whar  she  has  been. 

The  thresher’s  weary  flingin-tree 
Tho  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me ; 

And  whan  the  day  had  closed  his  e’e, 

Far  i’  the  west, 

Ben  i’  tho  spence  right  pensivelie 
I gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle- cheek, 

I sat  and  eyed  the  spewing  reek, 

That  filled,  wi’  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

The  auld  clay  biggin ; 

An’  heard  the  restless  rattons  sqneak 
About  the  riggin’. 

All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 

I backward  mused  on  wasted  time — 

How  I had  spent  my  youthfu’  prime, 

An’  done  nae  thing 
But  stringin’  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 

I might,  by  this,  hae  led  a market, 

Or  strutted  in  a bank  and  clarkit 
My  cash-account ; 

While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sarkit, 
Is  a’  th’  amount. 

I started,  muttering,  “blockhead!  coof!” 
And  heaved  on  high  my  waukit  loof, 

To  swear  by  a’  yon  starry  roof, 

Or  some  rash  aith, 

That  I,  henceforth,  would  be  rhyme  proof 
Till  my  last  breath — 

When  click ! the  string  the  snick  did  draw ; 
And  jee ! the  door  gaed  to  the  wa’ ; 

An’  by  my  ingle  lowe  I saw, 

Now  bleezin’  bright, 

A tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 


Ye  need  na  doubt  I held  my  whist — 

The  infant  aith,  half-formed,  was  crusht ; 

I glowered  as  eerie ’s  I ’d  been  dush’t 
In  some  wild  glen, 

When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  she  blusht* 
And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 

Were  twisted,  gracefu’,  round  her  brows; 

I took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse 
By  that  same  token, 

An’  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Wou’d  soon  been  broken. 

A “hair-brained  sentimental  trace” 

Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face ; 

A wildy-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her ; 

Her  eye,  ev’n  turned  on  empty  space, 
Beamed  keen  with  honor. 

Down  flowed  her  robe,  a tartan  sheen, 

Till  half  a leg  was  scrimply  seen ; 

And  such  a leg ! — my  bonnie  Jean 
Could  only  peer  it ; 

Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 
Nane  else  came  near  it. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 

My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew ; 

Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling,  threes 
A lustre  grand, 

And  seemed,  to  my  astonished  view, 

A well-known  land. 

Here  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 

There  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost ; 

Here  tumbling  billows  marked  the  coast 
With  surging  foam ; 

There  distant  shone  art’s  lofty  boast, 

The  lordly  dome. 

Here  Doon  poured  down  his  far-fetched  floods; 

There  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds ; 

Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  thro’  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore ; 

And  many  a lesser  torrent  scuds, 

With  seeming  roar. 


Low,  in  a sandy  valley  spread, 

An  ancient  borough  reared  her  head ; 


THE  VISION. 


633 


Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a race 
To  every  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polished  grace. 

By  stately  tower  or  palace  fair, 

Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air, 

Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I could  discern ; 

Some  seemed  to  muse — some  seemed  to  dare, 
With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel, 

To  see  a race  heroic  wheel, 

And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 
In  sturdy  blows ; 

While  back-recoiling  seemed  to  reel 
Their  Suthron  foes. 

His  country’s  saviour,  mark  him  well ! 

Bold  Richardton’s  heroic  swell ; 

The  chief  on  Sark  who  glorious  fell, 

In  high  command ; 

And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
His  native  land. 

There,  where  a sceptered  Pictish  shade 
Stalked  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I marked  a martial  race,  portrayed 
In  colors  strong ; 

Bold,  soldier-featured,  undismayed, 

They  strode  along. 

Through  many  a wild,  romantic  grove, 

Near  many  a hermit-fancied  cove 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love), 

In  musing  mood, 

An  aged  judge,  I saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I saw : 

To  nature’s  God  and  nature’s  law 
They  gave  their  lore ; 

This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw — 

That,  to  adore. 

Brydone’s  brave  ward  I well  could  spy 
Beneath  old  Scotia’s  smiling  eye, 

Who  called  on  Fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on 

Where  many  a patriot-name  on  high, 

And  hero  shone. 


DU  AN  SECOND. 

With  musing  deep,  astonished  stare, 

I viewed  the  heavenly-seeming  fair ; 

A whispering  throb  did  witness  bear 
Of  kindred  sweet, 

When,  with  an  elder  sister’s  air, 

She  did  me  greet : — 

All  hail ! my  own  inspired  bard ! 

In  me  thy  native  Muse  regard ; 

Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 
Thus  poorly  low ! 

I come  to  give  thee  such  reward 
As  we  bestow. 

Know  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a light  aerial  band, 

Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 
Harmoniously, 

As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labors  ply. 

They  Scotia’s  race  among  them  share : 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare ; 

Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 
Corruption’s  heart ; 

Some  teach  the  bard — a darling  care — 
The  tuneful  art. 

’Mong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gore 
They  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour ; 

Or  ’mid  the  venal  senate’s  roar 

They,  sightless,  stand, 

To  mend  the  honest  patriot  lore, 

And  grace  the  land. 

And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Charm  or  instruct  the  future  age, 

They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 
In  energy, 

Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 
Full  on  the  eye. 

Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young ; 
Hence  Dempster’s  zeal-inspired  tongue ; 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 
His  minstrel  lays ; 

Or  tore,  with  noble  ardor  stung, 

The  sceptic’s  bays. 


634 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


To  lower  orders  are  assigned 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human  kind : 

The  rustic  bard,  the  lah’ring  hind, 

The  artisan — 

All  choose,  as  various  they  ’re  inclined, 
The  various  man. 

When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain, 

The  threat’ning  storm  some  strongly  rein ; 
Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  plain 
With  tillage  skill ; 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd  train, 
Blythe  o’er  the  hill. 

Some  hint  the  lover’s  harmless  wile ; 

Some  grace  the  maiden’s  artless  smile ; 
Some  sooth  the  lah’rer’s  weary  toil 
For  humble  gains, 

And  make  his  cottage-scenes  beguile 
His  cares  and  pains. 

Some,  hounded  to  a district-space, 
j Explore  at  large  man’s  infant  race, 

I To  mark  the  embryotic  trace, 

Of  rustic  hard ; 

i And  careful  note  each  op'ning  grace — 

A guide  and  guard. 

Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name ; 

| And  this  district  as  mine  I claim, 

Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 
Held  ruling  pow’r ; 

! I marked  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame, 

Thy  natal  hour. 

With  future  hope  I oft  would  gaze, 

Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways, 

Thy  rudely  carolled,  chiming  phrase 
In  uncouth  rhymes, 

Fired  at  the  simple  artless  lays 
Of  other  times. 

I saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore, 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar ; 

Or  when  the  North  his  fleecy  store 
Drove  through  the  sky, 

I saw  grim  Nature’s  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

Or  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherished  every  flow’ret’s  birth, 


And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 
In  every  grove, 

I saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 
With  boundless  love. 

When  ripened  fields  and  azure  skies 
Called  forth  the  reapers’  rustling  noise, 

I saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk 

To  vent  thy  bosom’s  swelling  rise 
In  pensive  walk. 

When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  strong, 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along, 

Those  accents  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th’  adored  name, 

I taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  sooth  thy  flame. 

I saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way, 
Misled  by  fancy’s  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driven ; 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  Heaven. 

I taught  thy  manners-painting  strains, 

The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains — 

Till  now,  o’er  all  my  wide  domains 
Thy  fame  extends, 

And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila’s  plains, 
Become  thy  friends. 

Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I show, 

To  paint  with  Thomson’s  landscape  glow ; 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe, 

With  Shenstone’s  art; 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 
Warm  on  the  heart. 

Yet  all  beneath  th’  unrivalled  rose 
The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows ; 

Though  large  the  forest’s  monarch  throws 
His  army  shade, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows 
Adown  the  glade. 

Then  never  murmur  nor  repine ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine ; 

And  trust  me,  not  Potosi’s  mine, 

Nor  kings’  regard, 

Can  give  a bliss  o’ermatching  thine, 

A rustic  bard. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


635 


To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one — 

Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 

Preserve  the  dignity  of  man, 

With  soul  erect ; 

And  trust  the  Universal  Plan 
Will  all  protect. 

And  wear  thou  this ! — she  solemn  said, 

Amd  bound  the  holly  round  my  head ; 

The  polished  leaves  and  berries  red 
Did  rustling  play — 

And,  like  a passing  thought,  she  fled 
In  light  away. 

Kobert  Burns. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BUKNS. 

Pear  high  thy  bleak  majestic  hills, 

Thy  sheltered  valleys  proudly  spread — 

And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red ; 

But,  ah ! what  poet  now  shall  tread 
Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign, 

Since  he,  the  sweetest  bard,  is  dead, 

That  ever  breathed  the  soothing  strain  ? 

As  green  thy  towering  pines  may  grow, 

As  clear  thy  streams  may  speed  along, 

As  bright  thy  summer  suns  may  glow, 

As  gayly  charm  thy  feathery  throng ; 

But  now  unheeded  is  the  song, 

And  dull  and  lifeless  all  around — 

For  his  wild  harp  lies  all  unstrung, 

And  cold  the  hand  that  waked  its  sound. 

What  though  thy  vigorous  offspring  rise — 
In  arts,  in  arms,  thy  sons  excel ; 

Though  beauty  in  thy  daughters’  eyes, 

And  health  in  every  feature  dwell ; 

Fet  who  shall  now  their  praises  tell 
In  strains  impassioned,  fond,  and  free, 

Since  he  no  more  the  song  shall  swell 
To  love,  and  liberty,  and  thee ! 

With  step-dame  eye  and  frown  severe 
His  hapless  youth  why  didst  thou  view  ? 

For  all  thy  joys  to  him  were  dear, 

And  all  his  vows  to  thee  were  due ; 


Nor  greater  bliss  his  bosom  knew, 

In  opening  youth’s  delightful  prime, 

Than  when  thy  favoring  ear  he  drew 
To  listen  to  his  chanted  rhyme. 

Thy  lonely  wastes  and  frowning  skies 
To  him  were  all  with  rapture  fraught ; 

He  heard  with  joy  the  tempest  rise 
That  waked  him  to  sublimer  thought ; 

And  oft  thy  winding  dells  he  sought, 

Where  wild  flowers  poured  their  rathe  per- 
fume, 

And  with  sincere  devotion  brought 
To  thee  the  summer’s  earliest  bloom. 

But  ah ! no  fond  maternal  smile 
His  unprotected  youth  enjoyed — 

His  limbs  inured  to  early  toil, 

His  days  with  early  hardships  tried ! 

And  more  to  mark  the  gloomy  void, 

And  bid  him  feel  his  misery, 

Before  his  infant  eyes  would  glide 
Day-dreams  of  immortality. 

Yet,  not  by  cold  neglect  depressed, 

With  sinewy  arm  he  turned  the  soil, 

Sunk  with  the  evening  sun  to  rest, 

And  met  at  morn  his  earliest  smile. 

Waked  by  his  rustic  pipe  meanwhile, 

The  powers  of  fancy  came  along, 

And  soothed  his  lengthened  hours  of  toil 
With  native  wit  and  sprightly  song. 

Ah ! days  of  bliss  too  swiftly  fled, 

When  vigorous  health  from  labor  springs, 
And  bland  contentment  soothes  the  bed, 

And  sleep  his  ready  opiate  brings ; 

And  hovering  round  on  airy  wings 
Float  the  light  forms  of  young  desire, 

That  of  unutterable  things 
The  soft  and  shadowy  hope  inspire. 

Now  spells  of  mightier  power  prepare — 

Bid  brighter  phantoms  round  him  dance ; 
Let  flattery  spread  her  viewless  snare, 

And  fame  attract  his  vagrant  glance ; 

Let  sprightly  pleasure  too  advance, 

Unveiled  her  eyes,  unclasped  her  zone — 
Till,  lost  in  love’s  delirious  trance, 

Ho  scorn  the  joys  his  youth  has  known. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Let  friendship  pour  her  brightest  blaze, 
Expanding  all  the  bloom  of  soul ; 

And  mirth  concentre  all  her  rays, 

And  point  them  from  the  sparkling  bowl ; 

And  let  the  careless  moments  roll 
In  social  pleasures  unconfined, 

] And  confidence  that  spurns  control, 

Unlock  the  inmost  springs  of  mind ! 

And  lead  his  steps  those  bowers  among, 
"Where  elegance  with  splendor  vies, 

! Or  science  bids  her  favored  throng 
To  more  refined  sensations  rise ; 

Beyond  the  peasant’s  humbler  joys, 

And  freed  from  each  laborious  strife, 

There  let  him  learn  the  bliss  to  prize 
That  waits  the  sons  of  polished  life. 

Then,  whilst  his  throbbing  veins  beat  high 
With  every  impulse  of  delight, 

Dash  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  joy, 

And  shroud  the  scene  in  shades  of  night ; 

And  let  despair  with  wizard  light 
Disclose  the  yawning  gulf  below, 

1 And  pour  incessant  on  his  sight 

Her  spectred  ills  and  shapes  of  woe ; 

And  show  beneath  a cheerless  shed, 

With  sorrowing  heart  and  streaming  eyes, 

In  silent  grief  where  droops  her  head 
The  partner  of  his  early  joys ; 

And  let  his  infants’  tender  cries 
His  fond  parental  succour  claim, 

And  bid  him  hear  in  agonies 
A husband’s  and  a father’s  name. 

’T  is  done — the  powerful  charm  succeeds ; 
His  high  reluctant  spirit  bends ; 

In  bitterness  of  soul  he  bleeds, 

Nor  longer  with  his  fate  contends. 

An  idiot  laugh  the  welkin  rends 
As  genius  thus  degraded  lies ; 

Till  pitying  Heaven  the  veil  extends 
That  shrouds  the  poet’s  ardent  eyes. 

Rear  high  thy  bleak  majestic  hills, 

Thy  sheltered  valleys  proudly  spread, 

And,  Scotia,  pour  thy  thousand  rills, 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red ; 


But  never  more  shall  poet  tread 

Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign — 
Since  he,  the  sweetest  bard,  is  dead 
That  ever  breathed  the  soothing  strain. 

William  Boscob. 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  BURNS. 

SEVEN  YEARS  AFTEE  HIS  DEATH. 

I shiveb,  Spirit  fierce  and  bold, 

At  thought  of  what  I now  behold : 

As  vapors  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 
Strike  pleasure  dead, 

So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 
Where  Burns  is  laid. 

And  have  I then  thy  bones  so  near, 

And  thou  forbidden  to  appear  ? 

As  if  it  were  thyself  that ’s  here, 

I shrink  with  pain ; 

And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 
Alike  are  vain. 

Off  weight, — nor  press  on  weight ! — away 
Dark  thoughts ! — they  came,  but  not  to  stay ; 
With  chastened  feelings  would  I pay 
The  tribute  due 

To  him,  and  aught  that  hides  his  clay 
From  mortal  view. 

Fresh  as  the  flower  whose  modest  worth 
He  sang,  his  genius  “glinted”  forth — 
Rose  like  a star  that,  touching  earth, 

(F or  so  it  seems) 

Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 
With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow, 

The  struggling  heart,  where  be  they  now  ? — 
Full  soon  the  aspirant  of  the  plough, 

The  prompt,  the  brave, 

Slept,  with  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 
And  silent  grave. 

I mourned  with  thousands — but  as  one 
More  deeply  grieved ; for  he  was  gone 
Whose  light  I hailed  when  first  it  shone, 
And  showed  my  youth 
How  verse  may  build  a princely  throne 
On  humble  truth. 


BURNS. 


637 


Alas ! where’er  the  current  tends 
Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends ! 

Huge  Criffel’s  hoary  top  ascends 
By  Skiddaw  seen ; 

Neighbors  we  were,  and  loving  friends 
We  might  have  been — 

True  friends,  though  diversely  inclined ; 
But  heart  with  heart  and  mind  with  mind, 
Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined 
Through  nature’s  skill, 

May  even  by  contraries  be  joined 
More  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow ; 

Thou  “poor  inhabitant  below,” 

At  this  dread  moment — even  so — 

Might  we  together 

Have  sat  and  talked  where  gowans  blow, 
Or  on  wild  heather. 

What  treasures  would  have  then  been  placed 
Within  my  reach ! of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy  what  a rich  repast ! 

But  why  go  on  ? — 

0 . spare  to  sweep,  thou  mournful  blast, 
His  grave  grass-grown. 

There,  too,  a son,  his  joy  and  pride, 

(Not  three  weeks  past  the  stripling  died,) 
Lies  gathered  to  his  father’s  side — 
Soul-moving  sight ! 

Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied 
Some  sad  delight. 

For  he  is  safe,  a quiet  bed 
Hath  early  found  among  the  dead — 
Harbored  where  none  can  be  misled, 
Wronged,  or  distrest ; 

And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 
That  such  are  blest. 

And  0 ! for  thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  ofttimes  in  a devious  race — 

May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 
Where  man  is  laid, 

Receive  thy  spirit  in  the  embrace 
For  which  it  prayed ! 

Sighing,  I turned  away  ; but  ere 
Night  fell  I heard,  or  seemed  to  hear, 
Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near — 

A ritual  hymn, 

Chanted,  in  love  that  casts  out  fear, 

By  seraphim. 


THOUGHTS, 

SUGGESTED  THE  DAY  FOLLOWING,  ON  THE 
BANKS  OF  NITH,  NEAE  THE  POET’S  RESI- 
DENCE. 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 
That  must  have  followed  when  his  brow 
Was  wreathed — “The  Vision”  tells  us 
how — 

With  holly  spray, 

He  faltered,  drifted  to  and  fro, 

And  passed  away. 

Well  might  such  thoughts,  dear  sister, 
throng 

Our  minds  when,  lingering  all  too  long, 
Over  the  grave  of  Burns  we  hung 
In  social  grief, — 

Indulged  as  if  it  were  a wrong 
To  seek  relief. 

But,  leaving  each  unquiet  theme 
Where  gentlest  judgments  may  misdeem, 
And  prompt  to  welcome  every  gleam 
Of  good  and  fair, 

Let  us  beside  this  limpid  stream 
Breathe  hopeful  air. 

Enough  of  sorrow,  wreck,  and  blight ! 
Think  rather  of  those  moments  bright 
When  to  the  consciousness  of  right 
His  course  was  true — 

When  wisdom  prospered  in  his  sight, 

And  virtue  grew. 

Yes,  freely  let  our  hearts  expand, 

Freely  as  in  youth’s  season  bland, 

When,  side  by  side,  his  book  in  hand, 

We  wont  to  stray, 

Our  pleasure  varying  at  command 
Of  each  sweet  lay. 

How  oft,  inspired,  must  he  have  trod 
These  pathways,  yon  far-stretching  road ! 
There  lurks  his  home ; in  that  abode, 

With  mirth  elate, 

Or  in  his  nobly  pensive  mood, 

The  rustic  sate. 


638 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


1 


Proud  thoughts  that  image  overawes ; 
Before  it  humbly  let  us  pause, 

And  ask  of  Nature  from  what  cause, 

And  by  what  rules, 

She  trained  her  Burns  to  win  applause 
That  shames  the  schools. 

Through  busiest  street  and  loneliest  glen 
Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen ; 

He  rules  ’mid  winter  snows,  and  when 
Bees  fill  their  hives ; 

Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men 
His  power  survives. 

What  need  of  fields  in  some  far  clime 
Where  heroes,  sages,  bards  sublime, 

And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 
From  genuine  springs, 

Shall  dwell  together  till  old  Time 
Folds  up  his  wings  ? 

Sweet  Mercy ! to  the  gates  of  Heaven 
This  minstrel  lead,  his  sins  forgiven— 

The  rueful  conflict,  the  heart  riven 
With  vain  endeavor, 

And  memory  of  earth’s  bitter  leaven, 
Effaced  for  ever. 

But  why  to  him  confine  the  prayer, 

When  kindred  thoughts  and  yearnings  bear 
On  the  frail  heart  the  purest  share 
With  all  that  live  ? — 

The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are, 

Just  God,  forgive ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


BURNS. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 
To  Scottish  maid  and  lover — 

Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 

They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 
The  minstrel  and  the  heather — 

The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 
He  sang  of — live  together. 


Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant ! 

How,  at  their  mention,  Memory  turns 
Her  pages  old  and  pleasant ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 
And  purple  of  adorning, 

And  manhood’s  noonday  shadows  hold 
The  dews  of  boyhood’s  morning — 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure — 

The  sky  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
With  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I call  to  mind  the  summer  day — 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 

The  sky  with  sun  and  cloud  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 

And,  like  the  fabled  hunter’s  horn. 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 

How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I sought  the  maple’s  shadow, 

And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 
Forgetful  of  the  meadow ! 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  overhead 
I heard  the  squirrels  leaping — 

The  good  dog  listened  while  I read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I read  “The  Twa  Dogs’  ” story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet’s  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs ! — The  golden  hours 
Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 

From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 
A dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  nature  beamed, 
New  glory  over  woman  ; 

And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 
No  longer  poor  and  common. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN’S  HOMER.  689 


I woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 
Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 
A still  repining  debtor — 

That  nature  gives  her  handmaid,  art, 

The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing, 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  heart 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 
Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 

When  farmer-boy  and  barefoot  girl 
Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I saw  through  all  familiar  things 
The  romance  underlying — 

The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 
Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 

That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I matched  with  Scotland’s  heathery  hills 
The  sweet-brier  and  the  clover — 

With  Ayr  and  Doon  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood-hymns  chanting  over. 

O’er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I saw  the  Man  uprising — 

No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God’s  baptizing 

With  clearer  eyes  I saw  the  worth 
Of  life  among  the  lowly ; 

The  Bible  at  his  Cotter’s  hearth 
Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 

Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 
Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining ; 

No  heart  had  I to  see  or  hear 
The  discord  and  the  staining. 


Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song ! — I own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty — 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine, 
Or  wanton  ones  of  beauty — 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  between 
The  erring  one  and  heaven, 

That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 
Eternal  echoes  render — 

The  mournful  Tuscan’s  haunted  rhyme, 
And  Milton’s  starry  splendor ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 
To  nature’s  bosom  nearer  ? 

Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 
To  love  a tribute  dearer  ? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art  how  strong 
The  human  feeling  gushes ! 

The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 
Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 

So  “ Bonnie  Doon  ” but  tarry ! 

Blot  out  the  epic’s  stately  rhyme, 

But  spare  his  Highland  Mary ! 

John  Geeenleaf  Whittiee. 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN’S 
HOMER. 

Much  have  I travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I been  told 
That  deep-browed  Homer  ruled  as  his  de- 
mesne ; 

Yet  did  I never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and 
bold: 


640 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


| Then  felt  I like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
| When  a new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 

| Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Looked  at  each  other  with  a wild  snrmise — 
Silent,  upon  a peak  in  Darien. 

John  Keats. 


UHLAND. 

It  is  the  poet  Uhland,  from  whose  wreath-* 
ings 

Of  rarest  harmony  I here  have  drawn, 

To  lower  tones  and  less  melodious  breathings, 
Some  simple  strains,  of  youth  and  passion 
horn. 

His  is  the  poetry  of  sweet  expression — 

Of  clear,  unfaltering  tune,  serene  and 
strong — 

Where  gentlest  thoughts  and  words,  in  soft 
procession, 

Move  to  the  even  measures  of  his  song. 

Delighting  ever  in  his  own  calm  fancies, 

He  sees  much  beauty  where  most  men  see 
naught — 

Looking  at  nature  with  familiar  glances, 

And  weaving  garlands  in  the  groves  of 
thought. 

He  sings  of  youth,  and  hope,  and  high  en- 
deavor ; 

He  sings  of  love — 0 crown  of  poesy ! — 

Of  fate,  and  sorrow,  and  the  grave — forever 
The  end  of  strife,  the  goal  of  destiny. 

He  sings  of  Fatherland,  the  minstrel’s  glory — 
High  theme  of  memory  and  hope  divine — 

Twining  its  fame  with  gems  of  antique  story, 
In  Suabian  songs  and  legends  of  the  Rhine; 

In  ballads  breathing  many  a dim  tradition, 
Nourished  in  long  belief  or  minstrel  rhymes, 

Fruit  of  the  old  romance,  whose  gentle  mis- 
sion 

Passed  from  the  earth  before  our  wiser 
times. 


Well  do  they  know  his  name  among  the 
mountains, 

And  plains  and  valleys,  of  his  native  land ; 
Part  of  their  nature  are  the  sparkling  foun- 
tains 

Of  his  clear  thought,  with  rainbow  fancies 
spanned. 

His  simple  lays  oft  sings  the  mother,  cheerful, 
Beside  the  cradle  in  the  dim  twilight ; 

His  plaintive  notes  low  breathes  the  maiden, 
tearful, 

With  tender  murmurs  in  the  ear  of  night. 

The  hillside  swain,  the  reaper  in  the  mead- 
ows, 

Carol  his  ditties  through  the  toilsome  day ; 
And  the  lone  hunter  in  the  Alpine  shadows 
Recalls  his  ballads  by  some  ruin  gray. 

0 precious  gift ! 0 wondrous  inspiration ! 

Of  all  high  deeds,  of  all  harmonious  things, 
To  be  the  oracle,  while  a whole  nation 
Catches  the  echo  from  the  sounding  strings ! 

Out  of  the  depths  of  feeling  and  emotion 
Rises  the  orb  of  song,  serenely  bright — 

As  who  beholds,  across  the  tracts  of  ocean, 
The  golden  sunrise  bursting  into  light. 

Wide  is  its  magic  world — divided  neither 
By  continent,  nor  sea,  nor  narrow  zone ; 
Who  would  not  wish  sometimes  to  travel 
thither, 

In  fancied  fortunes  to  forget  his  own  ? 

William  Allen  Bctleb. 

THE  GRAVE  OF  A POETESS. 

Let  her  be  laid  within  a silent  dell, 

Where  hanging  trees  throw  round  a twilight 
gleam — 

Just  within  hearing  of  some  village-bell, 

And  by  the  margin  of  a low- voiced  stream ; 
For  these  were  sights  and  sounds  she  once 
loved  well. 

Then  o’er  her  grave  the  star-paved  sky  will 
beam; 


ODE. 


641 


While  all  around  the  fragrant  wild-flowers 
blow, 

And  sweet  birds  sing  her  requiem  to  the  wa- 
ter’s flow. 

Thomas  Millek. 


SOCKET. 

The  nightingale  is  mute — and  so  art  thou, 
Whose  voice  is  sweeter  than  the  nightin- 
gale; 

While  every  idle  scholar  makes  a vow 
Above  thy  worth  and  glory  to  prevail. 

Yet  shall  not  envy  to  that  level  bring 
The  true  precedence  which  is  born  in  thee; 

Thou  art  no  less  the  prophet  of  the  Spring, 
Though  in  the  woods  thy  voice  now  silent 
be. 

For  silence  may  impair,  but  cannot  kill 
The  music  that  is  native  to  thy  soul ; 

Nor  thy  sweet  mind,  in  this  thy  fro  ward  will, 
TJpon  thy  purest  honor  have  control : 

But,  since  thou  wilt  not  to  our  wishes  sing, 

This  truth  I speak — thou  art  of  poets  king. 

Lord  Thuelow. 


TO  MACAULAY. 

The  dreamy  rhymer’s  measured  snore 
Falls  heavy  on  our  ears  no  more ; 

And  by  long  strides  are  left  behind 
The  dear  delights  of  womankind, 

Who  wage  their  battles  like  their  loves, 

In  satin  waistcoats  and  kid  gloves, 

And  have  achieved  the  crowning  work 
When  they  have  trussed  and  skewered  a Turk. 
Another  comes  with  stouter  tread, 

And  stalks  among  the  statelier  dead : 

He  rushes  on,  and  hails  by  turns 
High-crested  Scott,  broad-breasted  Burns; 
And  shows  the  British  youth,  who  ne’er 
Will  lag  behind,  what  Bomans  were, 

When  all  the  Tuscans  and  their  Lars 
Shouted,  and  shook  the  towers  of  Mars. 

Walter  Savage  Landoe. 


ODE. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new? 

Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wondrous, 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund’rous ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven’s  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian’s  fawns ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daises  are  rose-scented, 

And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 

Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a senseless,  tranced  thing, 

But  divine,  melodious  truth — 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth — 

Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again ; 

And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumbered,  never  cloying. 

Here  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week ; 

Of  their  sorrows  and  delights ; 

Of  their  passions  and  their  spites ; 

Of  their  glory  and  their  shame ; 

What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 

Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 

Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth ! 

Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new ! 

John  Keats. 


41 


642 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  MINSTREL. 


SONNET. 


“ What  voice,  what  harp,  are  those  we  hear 
Beyond  the  gate  in  chorus  ? 

Go,  page ! — the  lay  delights  our  ear ; 

We  ’ll  have  it  sung  before  us ! ” 

So  speaks  the  king : the  stripling  flies — 

He  soon  returns ; his  master  cries — 

“ Bring  in  the  hoary  minstrel ! ” 

‘‘Hail,  princes  mine!  Hail,  noble  knights! 
All  hail,  enchanting  dames ! 

1 What  starry  heaven ! What  blinding  lights ! 
Whose  tongue  may  tell  their  names? 

In  this  bright  hall,  amid  this  blaze, 

Close,  close,  mine  eyes ! Ye  may  not  gaze 
On  such  stupendous  glories ! ” 

The  minnesinger  closed  his  eyes ; 

He  struck  his  mighty  lyre : 

Then  beauteous  bosoms  heaved  with  sighs, 
And  warriors  felt  on  fire ; 

The  king,  enraptured  by  the  strain, 
Commanded  that  a golden  chain 
Be  given  the  bard  in  guerdon. 

“ Not  so ! Reserve  thy  chain,  thy  gold, 

Eor  those  brave  knights  whose  glances, 
Fierce  flashing  through  the  battle  hold, 

Might  shiver  sharpest  lances ! 

' Bestow  it  on  thy  treasurer  there — 

The  golden  burden  let  him  hear 
With  other  glittering  burdens. 

“I  sing  as  in  the  greenwood  hush 
The  cageless  wild-hird  carols — 

The  tones  that  from  the  full  heart  gush 
Themselves  are  gold  and  laurels ! 

Yet  might  I ask,  then  thus  I ask — 

Let  one  bright  cup  of  wine,  in  flask 
Of  glowing  gold,  he  brought  me ! ” 

They  set  it  down ; he  quaffs  it  all — 

“ 0 ! draught  of  richest  flavor ! 

0 ! thrice  divinely  happy  hall 
Where  that  is  scarce  a favor ! 

If  Heaven  shall  bless  ye,  think  on  me ; 

And  thank  your  God  as  I thank  ye 
For  this  delicious  wine-cup ! ” 

Johaxn  Wolfgang  vox  Goethe  (German). 
Translation  of  James  Clabence  Maxgax. 


Who  best  can  paint  th’  enamelled  robe  ol 
Spring, 

With  flow’rets  and  fair  blossoms  well  he- 
dight; 

Who  best  can  her  melodious  accents  sing, 
With  which  she  greets  the  soft  return  of 
light; 

Who  best  can  hid  the  quaking  tempest  rage, 
And  make  th’  imperial  arch  of  Heav’n  to 
groan — 

Breed  warfare  with  the  winds,  and  finely 
wage 

Great  strife  with  Neptune  on  his  rocky 
throne — 

Or  lose  us  in  those  sad  ’and  mournful  days 
With  which  pale  Autumn  crowns  the  misty 
year, 

Shall  hear  the  prize,  and  in  his  true  essays 
A poet  in  our  awful  eyes  appear ; 

For  whom  let  wine  his  mortal  woes  beguile, 

Gold,  praise,  and  woman’s  thrice-endearing 
smile. 

Lobd  Thtblow. 


A POET’S  THOUGHT. 

Tell  me,  what  is  a poet’s  thought  ? 

Is  it  on  the  sudden  born  ? 

Is  it  from  the  starlight  caught  ? 

Is  it  by  the  tempest  taught  ? 

Or  by  whispering  morn  ? 

Was  it  cradled  in  the  brain? 

Chained  awhile,  or  nursed  in  night? 
Was  it  wrought  with  toil  and  pain? 
Did  it  bloom  and  fade  again, 

Ere  it  burst  to  light? 

No  more  question  of  its  birth : 

Rather  love  its  better  part ! 

’T  is  a thing  of  sky  and  earth, 
Gathering  all  its  golden  worth 
From  the  poet’s  heart. 

BaBKY  COBXWALL. 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE. 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE. 

i. 

Thebe  was  a roaring  in  the  wind  all  night — 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods  ; 

But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright — 
The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods ; 
Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  stock-dove 
broods ; 

The  jay  makes  answer  as  the  magpie  chat- 
ters ; 

And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of 
waters. 

n. 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of  doors ; 
The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning’s  birth ; 

The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops ; on  the 
moors 

The  hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth ; 

And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 
Raises  a mist  that,  glittering  in  the  sun, 

Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she 
doth  run. 

hi. 

I was  a traveller  then  upon  Tthe  moor ; 

I saw  the  hare  that  raced  about  with  joy ; 

I heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters  roar — 
Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a boy. 

The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ  ; 
My  old  remembrances  went  from  me  wholly — 
And  all  the  ways  of  men,  so  vain  and  melan- 
choly. 

IV. 

But,  as  it  sometimes  chanceth,  from  the 
might 

Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go, 

As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low — 

To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so ; 

And  fears  and  fancies  thick  upon  me  came — 
Dim  sadness,  and  blind  thoughts,  I knew  not, 
nor  could  name. 

v. 

I heard  the  skylark  warbling  in  the  sky ; 

And  I bethought  me  of  the  playful  hare : 


643 

Even  such  a happy  child  of  earth  am  I ; 

Even  as  these  blissful  creatures  do  I fare ; 

Far  from  the  world  I walk,  and  from  all  care. 
But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me — 
Solitude,  pain  of  heart,  distress,  and  poverty. 

VI. 

My  whole  life  I have  lived  in  pleasant 
thought, 

As  if  life’s  business  were  a summer  mood — 
As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  unsought 
To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good ; 

But  how  can  he  expect  that  others  should 
Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 
Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no  heed 
at  all  ? 

VII. 

I thought  of  Ohatterton,  the  marvellous  boy, 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perished  in  his  pride ; 
Of  him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy, 
Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain 
side. 

By  our  own  spirits  we  are  deified ; 

We  poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness, 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency 
and  madness. 

VIII. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace, 

A leading  from  above,  a something  given, 
Yet  it  befell  that,  in  this  lonely  place, 

When  I with  these  untoward  thoughts  had 
striven, 

Beside  a pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  heaven 
I saw  a man  before  me  unawares — 

The  oldest  man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore 
gray  hairs. 

IX. 

As  a huge  stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence, 
Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy 
By  what  means  it  could  hither  come,  and 
whence ; 

So  that  it  seems  a thing  endued  with  sense — 
Like  a sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  it- 
self— 


644 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


x. 

Such  seemed  this  man,  not  all  alive  nor  dead, 
Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  extreme  old  age. 

His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coming  together  in  life’s  pilgrimage, 

As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain,  or  rage 
Of  sickness,  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 

A more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame 
had  cast. 

XI. 

Himself  he  propped,  limbs,  body,  and  pale  face, 
Upon  a long  gray  staff  of  shaven  wood ; 

And  still,  as  I drew  near  with  gentle  pace, 
Upon  the  margin  of  that  Aoorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a cloud  the  old  man  stood, 

That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they 
call, 

And  moveth  all  together,  if  it  move  at  all. 

XII. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  he  the  pond 
Stirred  with  his  staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 
Upon  that  muddy  water,  which  he  conned 
As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a hook. 

And  now  a stranger’s  privilege  I took ; 

And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say 
“ This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a glorious 
day.” 

XIII. 

A gentle  answer  did  the  old  man  make, 

In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he  slowly 
drew; 

And  him  with  further  words  I thus  bespake : 
“What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue ? 

This  is  a lonesome  place  for  one  like  you.” 
Ere  he  replied,  a flash  of  mild  surprise 
Broke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet  vivid 
eyes. 

XIV. 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a feeble  chest ; 
But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each, 
With  something  of  a lofty  utterance  drest, — 
Choice  word  and  measured  phrase,  above  the 
reach 

Of  ordinary  men,  a stately  speech, 

Such  as  grave  livers  do  in  Scotland  use — 
Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  man 
their  dues. 


xv. 

He  told  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 
To  gather  leeches,  being  old  and  poor — 
Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome ! 

And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure ; 

From  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor 
to  moor — 

Housing,  with  God’s  good  help,  by  choice  01 
chance ; 

And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  mainte- 
nance. 

XVI. 

The  old  man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side ; 
But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a stream 
Scarce  heard,  nor  word  from  word  could  I 
divide ; 

And  the  whole  body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like  one  whom  I had  met  with  in  a dream — 
Or  like  a man  from  some  far  region  sent 
To  give  me  human  strength  by  apt  admonish- 
ment. 

XVII. 

My  former  thoughts  returned : the  fear  that 
kills, 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  he  fed ; 

Cold,  pain,  and  labor,  and  all  fleshly  ills ; 

And  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead. 

— Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted, 
My  question  eagerly  did  I renew — 

“ How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you 
do?” 

xvni. 

He  with  a smile  did  then  his  words  repeat ; 
And  said  that,  gathering  leeches,  far  and 
wide 

He  travelled,  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 
The  waters  of  the  pools  where  they  abide. 

“ Once  I could  meet  with  them  on  every  side, 
But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay ; 
Yet  still  I persevere,  and  find  them  where  I 
may.” 

XIX. 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place, 
The  old  man’s  shape  and  speech — all  troubled 
me; 

In  my  mind’s  eye  I seemed  to  see  him  pace 


ODE  ON  A GRECIAN  URN. 


645 


About  tbe  weary  moors  continually, 
Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 

While  I these  thoughts  within  myself  pursued, 
He,  having  made  a pause,  the  same  discourse 
renewed. 

xx. 

And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blend- 
ed— 

Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanor  kind, 

But  stately  in  the  main ; and  when  he  ended 
I could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn,  to  find 
In  that  decrepit  man  so  firm  a mind. 

“ God,”  said  I,  “ be  my  help  and  stay  secure ; 
I ’ll  think  of  the  leech-gatherer  on  the  lonely 
moor ! ” 

William  Wordsworth. 


AH  EXHORTATION”. 

Chameleons  feed  on  light  and  air — 
Poets’  food  is  love  and  fame ; 

If  in  this  wide  world  of  care 
Poets  could  but  find  the  same 
With  as  little  toil  as  they, 

Would  they  ever  change  their  hue 
As  the  light  chameleons  do, 

Suiting  it  to  every  ray 
Twenty  times  a-day  ? 

Poets  are  on  this  cold  earth 
As  chameleons  might  be, 

Hidden  from  their  early  birth 
In  a cave  beneath  the  sea : 

Where  light  is,  chameleons  change — 
Where  love  is  not,  poets  do. 

Fame  is  love  disguised ; if  few 
Find  either,  never  think  it  strange 
That  poets  range. 


ODE  ON”  A GRECIAN  URN. 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness ! 
Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time ! 

Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 
A flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our 
rhyme ! 

What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy 
shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these  ? what  maid- 
ens loath  ? 

What  mad  pursuit  ? What  struggle  to  escape  ? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?  What  wild 
ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  th$se  unheard 
Are  sweeter ; therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play 
on — 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone ! 

Fair  youth  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not 
leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare ; 

Bold  lover,  never,  never,  canst  thou  kiss, 

Though  winning  near  the  goal ; yet  do  not 
grieve — 

She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not 
thy  bliss ; 

For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs ! that  cannot  shed 
Your  leaves  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu ; 

And  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new ; 

More  happy  love ! more  happy,  happy  love ! 
For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 

For  ever  panting  and  for  ever  young; 

All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a heart  high  sorrowful  and 
cloyed, 

A burning  forehead  and  a parching 
tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O mysterious  priest, 

Lead’st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 
And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands 
drest? 


Yet  dare  not  stain  with  wealth  or  power 
A poet’s  free  and  heavenly  mind ; 

If  bright  chameleons  should  devour 
Any  food  but  beams  and  wind, 

They  would  grow  as  earthly  soon 
As  their  brother  lizards  are : 

Children  of  a sunnier  star, 

Spirits  from  beyond  the  moon, 

O,  refuse  the  boon ! 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelly. 


646 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  its  folk,  this  pious  morn  ? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 
Will  silent  he ; and  not  a soul,  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e’er  return. 

O Attic  shape!  Fair  attitude!  with  brede 
Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed ! 
Thou,  silent  form!  dost  tease  us  out  of 
thought, 

As  doth  eternity.  Cold  pastoral ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou 
say’st 

“Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,” — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to 
know. 

John  Keats. 


THE  MEAN'S  TO  ATTAIN"  HAPPY  LIFE. 

Martial,  the  things  that  do  attain 
The  happy  life  he  these,  I find — 

The  riches  left,  not  got  with  pain ; 

The  fruitful  ground,  the  quiet  mind, 

The  equal  friend ; no  grudge,  no  strife ; 

No  charge  of  rule,  nor  governance ; 
Without  disease,  the  healthful  life ; 

The  household  of  continuance  ; 

The  mean  diet,  no  delicate  fare ; 

True  wisdom  joined  with  simpleness ; 
The  night  discharged  of  all  care, 

Where  wine  the  wit  may  not  oppress ; 

The  faithful  wife,  without  debate ; 

Such  sleeps  as  may  beguile  the  night ; 
Contented  with  thine  own  estate, 

Ne  wish  for  death,  ne  fear  his  might. 

Lobd  Surrey. 


L’ ALLEGRO. 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight 
horn ! 

In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

’Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and 
sights  unholy, 

Find  out  some  uncouth  cell, 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his 
jealous  wings, 

And  the  night-raven  sings ; 

There,  under  ebon  shades,  and  low- 
browed rocks, 

As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 
But  come,  thou  goddess  fair  and  free, 

In  heav’n  y-cleped  Euphrosyne, 

And,  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth ! 

Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more, 

To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore ; 

Or  whether  (as  some  sages  sing) 

The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing — 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying — 

There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Filled  her  with  thee,  a daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity — 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe’s  cheek, 

And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek — 

Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come ! and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty ; 

And  if  I give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free — 

To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight, 

And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 


L’ALLEGRO. 


647 


From  his  watch-tow’r  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good  morrow, 
Through  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 

While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door, 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before ; 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  Morn, 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ; 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 

By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate, 

Where  the  great  sun  begins  his  state, 
Robed  in  flames,  and  amber  light, 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 
While  the  ploughman  near  at  hand 
Whistles  o’er  the  furrowed  land, 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleas- 
ures, 

Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 

Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray — 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest — 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies, 

The  cynosure  of  neigboring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  met, 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes, 

Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead. 


Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a youth,  and  many  a maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequered  shade ; 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a sunshine  holiday, 

Till  the  live-long  daylight  fail ; 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale 
With  stories  told  of  many  a feat: 

How  fairy  Mab  the  junkets  eat — 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said, 

And  he  by  friar’s  lantern  led ; 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 
That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 

Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 

And  stretched  out  all  the  chimney’s  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And,  crop-full,  out  of  doors  he  flings 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold 
In  weeds  of  peace  high  triumphs  hold — 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 

And  pomp  and  feast  and  revelry, 

With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry — 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream ; 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson’s  learned  sock  be  on, 

Or  sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancy’s  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 


648 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


In  notes  with  many  a winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony — 

That  Orpheus’  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber  on  a bed 
Of  heaped  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half  regained  Eurydice. 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 

Mirth,  with  thee  I mean  to  live. 


IL  PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  joys, 

The  brood  of  folly  without  father  bred ! 
How  little  you  bestead, 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  pos- 
sess, 

As  thick  and  numberless 
As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sun- 
beams— 

Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus’  train. 
But  hail,  thou  goddess,  sage  and  holy ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy ! 

Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 

And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O’erlaid  with  black,  staid  wisdom’s  hue — 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon’s  sister  might  beseem. 

Or  that  starred  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty’s  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended ; 

Thee  bright-haired  Yesta,  long  of  yore, 

To  solitary  Saturn  bore — 

His  daughter  she  (in  Saturn’s  reign 
Such  mixture  was  not  held  a stain). 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida’s  inmost  grove, 

While  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove. 


Come,  pensive  nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 

All  in  a robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn ! 

Come ! hut  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step  and  musing  gait, 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes ; 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a sad,  leaden,  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast ; 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet- 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove’s  altar  sing ; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ; 
But  first,  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne — 

The  cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 

’Less  Philomel  will  deign  a song 
In  her  sweetest,  saddest  plight, 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
Gently  o’er  the  accustomed  oak. 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn’st  the  noise  of  fol- 
ly— 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy ! 

Thee,  chauntress,  oft  the  woods  among 
I woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I walk  unseen 
On  the  dry,  smooth-shaven  green, 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
Through  the  heav’n’s  wide  pathless  way ; 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 
Stooping  through  a fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a plat  of  rising  ground, 

I hear  the  far-off  curfew  sound 
Over  some  wide-watered  shore, 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 

Or  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a gloom — 


IL  PENSEROSO. 


649 


Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 

Or  the  bellman’s  drowsy  charm, 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm  ; 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 

Where  I may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  o'f  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook ; 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 

Whose  power  hath  a true  consent 
Witli  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  sceptred  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops’  line, 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine, 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  stage. 

But,  0,  sad  virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower ! 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto’s  cheek, 

And  made  hell  grant  what  love  did  seek ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold — 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife — 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife, 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass — 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass, 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride ! 

And,  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung — 

Of  turneys  and  of  trophies  hung, 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale 
career, 

Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear — 

Not  tricked  and  flounced,  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  boy  to  hunt, 

But  kerchiefed  in  a comely  cloud 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a shower  still 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 


Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves, 

With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
T o arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 

Of  pine  or  monumental  oak, 

Where  the  rude  axe  with  heaved  stroke 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt, 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook, 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 

Hide  me  from  day’s  garish  eye, 

While  the  bee  with  honied  thigh, 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring 
With  such  consort  as  they  keep, 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  sleep ; 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid ; 

And,  as  I wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  th’  unseen  genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloisters  pale, 

And  love  the  high  embowed  roof, 

With  antic  pillars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows,  richly  dight, 

Casting  a dim  religious  light. 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 
To  the  full  voiced  quire  below, 

In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 
Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  lieav’n  doth  show, 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew, 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 

And  I with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

John  Milton. 


650 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


SONG. 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savor  of  con- 
tent— 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a crown ; 

Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber 
spent — 

The  poor  estate  scorns  Fortune’s  angry 
frown : 

Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep, 
such  bliss, 

Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  that  harbors  quiet  rest, 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  or  care, 

The  mean  that  ’grees  with  country  music  best, 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music’s  fare, 

Obscured  life  sets  down  a type  of  bliss : 

A mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

Robert  Green. 


THE  REPLY. 

i. 

Since  you  desire  of  me  to  know 
Who’s  the  wise  man,  I’  11  tell  you  who : 

Not  he  whose  rich  and  fertile  mind 
Is  by  the  culture  of  the  arts  refined ; 

Who  has  the  chaos  of  disordered  thought 
By  reasons’  light  to  form  and  method 
brought ; 

Who  with  a clear  and  piercing  sight 
Can  see  through  niceties  as  dark  as  night — 
You  err  if  you  think  this  is  he, 

Though  seated  on  the  top  of  the  Porphyrian 
tree. 

11. 

Nor  is  it  he  to  whom  kind  Heaven 
A secret  cabala  has  given 
T’  unriddle  the  mysterious  text 
Of  nature,  with  dark  comments  more  per- 
plext — 

Or  to  decipher  her  clean-writ  and  fair, 

But  most  confounding,  puzzling  character — 
That  can  through  all  her  windings  trace 
This  slippery  wanderer,  and  unveil  her  face, 


Her  inmost  mechanism  view, 

Anatomize  each  part,  and  see  her  through 
and  through. 

in. 

Nor  he  that  does  the  science  know 
Our  only  certainty  below — 

That  can  from  problems  dark  and  nice 
Deduce  truths  worthy  of  a sacrifice. 

Nor  he  that  can  confess  the  stars,  and  see 
What ’s  writ  in  the  black  leaves  of  destiny — 
That  knows  their  laws,  and  how  the  sun 
His  daily  and  his  annual  stage  does  run, 

As  if  he  did  to  them  dispense 
Their  motions  and  their  fate — supreme  intel- 
ligence ! 

IV. 

Nor  is  it  he  (although  he  boast 
Of  wisdom,  and  seem  wise  to  most,) 

Yet ’t  is  not  he  whose  busy  pate 

Can  dive  into  the  deep  intrigues  of  state — 

That  can  the  great  leviathan  control, 

Manage  and  rule  it,  as  if  he  were  its  soul ; 
The  wisest  king  thus  gifted  was, 

And  yet  did  not  in  these  true  wisdom  place. 
Who  then  is  by  the  wise  man  meant  ? 

He  that  can  want  all  this,  and  yet  can  be 
content. 

John  Norris. 


A CONTENTED  MIND. 

I weigh  not  Fortune’s  frown  or  smile  ; 

I joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys ; 

I seek  not  state,  I reck  not  style ; 

I am  not  fond  of  Fancy’s  toys : 

I rest  so  pleased  with  what  I have 
I wish  no  more,  no  more  I crave. 

I quake  not  at  the  thunder’s  crack ; 

I tremble  not  at  noise  of  war ; 

I swound  not  at  the  news  of  wrack ; 

I shrink  not  at  a blazing  star ; 

I fear  not  loss,  I hope  not  gain  ; 

I envy  none,  I none  disdain. 

I see  ambition  never  pleased ; 

I see  some  Tantals  starved  in  store ; 

I see  gold’s  dropsy  seldom  eased ; 

I see  even  Midas  gape  for  more  • 


THE  LYE. 


651 


I neither  want,  nor  yet  abound — 
Enough ’s  a feast,  content  is  crowned. 

I feign  not  friendship  where  I hate  ; 

I fawn  not  on  the  great  (in  show) ; 

I prize,  I praise  a mean  estate — 
Neither  too  lofty  nor  too  low  : 

This,  this  is  all  my  choice,  my  cheer — 
A mind  content,  a conscience  clear. 

Joshua  Sylvester. 


SONG. 

What  pleasure  have  great  princes, 
More  dainty  to  their  choice 
Than  herdsmen  wild,  who,  careless, 

In  quiet  life  rejoice, 

And  fortune’s  fate  not  fearing, 

Sing  sweet  in  summer  morning. 

Their  dealings,  plain  and  rightful, 

Are  void  of  all  deceit ; 

They  never  know  how  spiteful 
It  is  to  feel  and  wait 
On  favorite  presumptuous, 

Whose  pride  is  vain  and  sumptuous. 

All  day  their  flocks  each  tendeth ; 

All  night  they  take  their  rest — 
More  quiet  than  who  sendeth 
His  ship  into  the  East, 

Where  gold  and  pearls  are  plenty, 

But  getting  very  dainty. 

For  lawyers  and  their  pleading, 

They  esteem  it  not  a straw ; 

They  think  that  honest  meaning 
Is  of  itself  a law  ; 

Where  conscience  judge th  plainly, 
They  spend  no  money  vainly. 

O happy  who  thus  liveth, 

Not  caring  much  for  gold, 

With  clothing  which  sufficeth 
To  keep  him  from  the  cold  ; 

Though  poor  and  plain  his  diet, 

Yet  merry  it  is  and  quiet. 

"William  Bybd. 


THE  LYE. 

Goe,  Soule,  the  bodie’s  guest, 

Upon  a thanklesse  arrant ; 

Feare  not  to  touche  the  best — 

The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ! 
Goe,  since  I needs  must  dye, 
And  give  the  world  the  lye. 

Goe  tell  the  court  it  glowes 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 

Goe  tell  the  church  it  showes 
What ’s  good,  and  doth  no  good ; 
If  church  and  court  reply, 

Then  give  them  both  the  lye. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 
Acting  by  others  actions — 

Not  loved  unlesse  they  give, 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions ; 
If  potentates  reply, 

Give  potentates  the  lye. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 

That  rule  affairs  of  state, 

Their  purpose  is  ambition, 

Their  practice  only  hate ; 

And  if  they  once  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lye. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in  their  greatest  cost 
Seek  nothing  but  commending ; 
And  if  they  make  reply, 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lye. 

Tell  Zeale  it  lacks  devotion ; 

Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust ; 

Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion ; 

Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 

And  wish  them  not  reply, 

For  thou  must  give  the  lye. 

Toll  Age  it  daily  wasteth  ; 

Tell  Honour  how  it  alters ; 

Tell  Beauty  how  she  blasteth  ; 

Tell  Favour  how  she  falters ; 


652 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


And  as  they  then  reply, 

Give  each  of  them  the  lye. 

Tell  Wit  how  mnch  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  nicenesse  ; 

Tell  Wisedome  she  entangles 
Herselfe  in  over  wisenesse ; 

And  if  they  do  reply, 

Straight  give  them  both  the  lye. 

Tell  Physicke  of  her  boldnesse  ; 

Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension ; 

Tell  Charity  of  coldnesse ; 

Tell  Law  it  is  contention ; 

And  as  they  yield  reply, 

So  give  them  still  the  lye. 

Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindnesse ; 

Tell  Nature  of  decay ; 

Tell  Friendship  of  unkindnesse  ; 

Tell  Justice  of  delay ; 

And  if  they  dare  reply, 

Then  give  them  all  the  lye. 

Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundnesse, 

But  vary  by  esteeming ; 

Tell  Schooles  they  want  profoundnesse, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming ; 

If  Arts  and  Schooles  reply, 

Give  Arts  and  Schooles  the  lye. 

Tell  Faith  it ’s  fled  the  citie ; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth ; 

Tell,  Manhood  shakes  off  pitie ; 

Tell,  Yertue  least  preferreth ; 

And  if  they  doe  reply, 

Spare  not  to  give  the  lye. 

So,  when  thou  hast,  as  I 
Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing — 
Although  to  give  the  lye 
Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing — 

Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 

No  stab  the  soule  can  kill. 

Anonymotjb. 


MY  MINDE  TO  ME  A KINGDOM  IS. 

My  minde  to  me  a kingdom  is ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I finde 
As  farre  exceeds  all  earthly  blisse 
That  God  or  Nature  hath  assignde : 
Though  much  I want,  that  most  would  have. 
Yet  still  my  minde  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I live  ; this  is  my  stay — 

I seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I presse  to  beare  no  haughtie  sway ; 

Look,  what  I lack  my  mind  supplies. 

Loe ! thus  I triumph  like  a king, 

Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 

I see  how  plentie  surfets  oft, 

And  hastie  clymbers  soonest  fall ; 

I see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  get  with  toile,  and  keepe  with  feare ; 
Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  beare. 

No  princely  pompe  nor  welthie  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victorie, 

No  wylie  wit  to  salve  a 3ore, 

No  shape  to  winne  a lover’s  eye — 

To  none  of  these  I yeeld  as  thrall ; 

For  why,  my  mind  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave ; 

I little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 

They  are  but  poore,  though  much  they  have  j 
And  I am  rich  with  little  store. 

They  poor,  I rich  ; they  beg,  I give ; 

They  lacke,  I lend ; they  pine,  I live. 

I laugh  not  at  another’s  losse, 

I grudge  not  at  another’s  gaine ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  tosse ; 

I brooke  that  is  another’s  bane. 

I feare  no  foe,  nor  fawne  on  friend ; 

I lothe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I joy  not  in  no  earthly  blisse ; 

I weigh  not  Cresus’  wealth  a straw ; 

For  care,  I care  not  what  it  is ; 

I feare  not  fortune’s  fatal  law ; 

My  mind  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beautie  bright,  or  force  of  love. 


THE  WINTER  BEING  OYER. 


653 


I wish  hut  what  I have  at  will ; 

I wander  not  to  seeke  for  more ; 

I like  the  plaine,  I clime  no  hill ; 

In  greatest  stormes  I sitte  on  shore, 

And  laugh  at  them  that  toile  in  vaine 
To  get  what  must  he  lost  againe. 

I kisse  not  where  I wish  to  kill ; 

I feigne  not  love  where  most  I hate ; 

I breake  no  sleepe  to  winne  my  will ; 

I wayte  not  at  the  mightie’s  gate. 

I scorne  no  poore,  I feare  no  rich ; 

I feele  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  ne  cart  I like  ne  loath — 
Extreames  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 

The  golden  meane  betwixt  them  both 
Doth  surest  sit,  and  feares  no  fall ; 

This  is  my  choyce ; for  why,  I finde 
No  wealth  is  like  a quiet  minde. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease ; 

My  conscience  clere  my  chiefe  defence  ; 

I never  seeke  by  bribes  to  please, 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 

( Thus  do  I live,  thus  will  I die ; 

Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

William  Byrd. 


SONNET. 

If  accident,  if  outward  accident, 

Could  bend  the  man  to  unrestrained  woe, 
We  then  should  have  an  endless  argument 
Of  all  that  to  our  life’s  delight  is  foe ; 

Then  toil  upon  the  surging  seas  would  prove, 
And  peril  in  sequestered  ways,  an  ill 
Which  man  from  off  his  ground  of  hope  would 
move, 

And,  quenching  reason,  all  endurance  kill ; 
Then  poverty  and  sickness  would  conspire 
Against  th’  abated  wisdom  of  the  soul ; 

The  loss  of  friends  would  poison  our  desire, 
And  change  of  place  our  better  sense  con- 
trol. 

But  so  we  mix  our  fancy  with  our  woe, 

That  abstract  and  pure  grief  we  lose  to  know. 

Lord  Thurlow. 


THE  WINTER  BEING  OYER. 

The  Winter  being  over, 

In  order  comes  the  Spring, 

Which  doth  green  herbs  discover. 
And  cause  the  birds  to  sing. 

The  night  also  expired, 

Then  comes  the  morning  bright, 
Which  is  so  much  desired 
By  all  that  love  the  light. 

This  may  learn 
Them  that  mourn, 

To  put  their  grief  to  flight : 

The  Spring  succeedeth  Winter, 
And  day  must  follow  night. 


He  therefore  that  sustaineth 
Affliction  or  distress 
Which  every  member  paineth, 
And  findeth  no  release — 

Let  such  therefore  despair  not. 
But  on  firm  hope  depend, 
Whose  griefs  immortal  are  not, 
And  therefore  must  have  end. 

They  that  faint 

With  complaint 
Therefore  are  to  blame ; 

They  add  to  their  afflictions. 
And  amplify  the  same. 


For  if  they  could  with  patience 
Awhile  possess  the  mind, 

By  inward  consolations 
They  might  refreshing  find, 

To  sweeten  all  their  crosses 
That  little  time  they  ’dure ; 

So  might  they  gain  by  losses, 
And  sharp  would  sweet  procure. 

But  if  the  mind 

Be  inclined 
To  unquietness. 

That  only  may  be  called 
The  worst  of  all  distress. 


He  that  is  melancholy, 
Detesting  all  delight, 
His  wits  by  sottish  folly 
Are  ruinated  quite. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


654 

Sad  discontent  and  murmnrs 
To  him  are  incident ; 

Were  he  possessed  of  honors, 

He  could  not  be  content. 

Sparks  of  joy 
Fly  away ; 

Floods  of  care  arise ; 

And  all  delightful  motion 
In  the  conception  dies. 

But  those  that  are  contented 
However  things  do  fall, 

Much  anguish  is  prevented, 

And  they  soon  freed  from  all. 

They  finish  all  their  labors 
With  much  felicity ; 

Their  joy  in  trouble  savors 
Of  perfect  piety. 

Cheerfulness 
Doth  express 
A settled  pious  mind, 

Which  is  not  prone  to  grudging, 
From  murmuring  refined. 

Ann  Collins. 


SONNETS. 

Teiumphixg  chariots,  statues,  crowns  of  bays, 

Sky-threatening  arches,  the  rewards  of  worth; 

Books  heavenly-wise  in  sweet  harmonious 
lays, 

Which  men  divine  unto  the  world  set  forth; 

States  which  ambitious  minds,  in  blood,  do 
raise 

i From  frozen  Tanais  unto  sun-burnt  Gange ; 

J Gigantic  frames  held  wonders  rarely  strange, 
! Like  spiders’  webs,  are  made  the  sport  of  days. 
! Nothing  is  constant  but  in  constant  change, 
j What ’s  done  still  is  undone,  and  when  undone 
i Into  some  other  fashion  doth  it  range ; 

Thus  goes  the  floating  world  beneath  the 
moon: 

Wherefore,  my  mind,  above  time,  motion, 
place, 

Rise  up,  and  steps  unknown  to  nature  trace. 


A good  that  never  satisfies  the  mind, 

A beauty  fading  like  the  April  showers, 

A sweet  with  floods  of  gall  that  runs  com- 
bined, 

A pleasure  passing  ere  in  thought  made  ours, 
A honor  that  more  fickle  is  than  wind, 

A glory  at  opinion’s  frown  that  lowers, 

A treasury  which  bankrupt  time  devours, 

A knowledge  than  grave  ignorance  more 
blind, 

A vain  delight  our  equals  to  command, 

A style  of  greatness  in  effect  a dream, 

A swelling  thought  of  holding  sea  and  land, 
A servile  lot,  decked  with  a pompous  name : 
Are  the  strange  ends  we  toil  for  here  below 
Till  wisest  death  makes  us  our  errors  know. 

William  Dbummond. 


A SWEET  PASTORAL. 

Good  Muse,  rock  me  asleep 
With  some  sweet  harmony ! 

The  weary  eye  is  not  to  keep 
Thy  wary  company. 

Sweet  love,  begone  awhile ! 

Thou  know’st  my  heaviness ; 

Beauty  is  born  but  to  beguile 
My  heart  of  happiness. 

See  how  my  little  flock, 

That  loved  to  feed  on  high, 

Do  headlong  tumble  down  the  rock. 
And  in  the  valley  die. 

The  bushes  and  the  trees, 

That  were  so  fresh  and  green, 

Do  all  their  dainty  color  lease, 

And  not  a leaf  is  seen. 

Sweet  Philomel,  the  bird 
That  hath  the  heavenly  throat, 

Doth  now,  alas ! not  once  afford 
Recording  of  a note. 

The  flowers  have  had  a frost ; 

Each  herb  hath  lost  her  savor ; 

And  Phillida,  the  fair,  hath  lost 
The  comfort  of  her  favor. 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 


Now  all  these  careful  sights 
So  kill  me  in  conceit, 

That  how  to  hope  upon  delights 
Is  hut  a mere  deceit. 

And,  therefore,  my  sweet  Muse, 

Thou  know’st  what  help  is  best ; 

Do  now  thy  heavenly  cunning  use 
To  set  my  heart  at  rest. 

And  in  a dream  bewray 
What  fate  shall  be  my  friend — 
Whether  my  life  shall  still  decay, 

Or  when  my  sorrow  end. 

Nicholas  Breton. 


HYMN  TO  INTELLECTUAL  BEAUTY. 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  power 
Floats,  though  unseen,  among  us — visiting 
This  various  world  with  as  inconstant  wing 

As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to 
flower ; 

Like  moonbeams,  that  behind  some  piny 
mountain  shower, 

It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance, 

Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, 

Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 

Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

Spirit  of  beauty,  that  dost  consecrate 
With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine 
upon 

Of  human  thought  or  form,  where  art  thou 
gone? 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state, 

This  dim,  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  deso- 
late? 

Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o’er  yon  mountain 
river ; 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is 
shown ; 


655 

Why  fear,  and  dream,  and  death,  and 
birth 

Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom ; why  man  has  such  a scope 
For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope. 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given ; 
Therefore  the  names  of  demon,  ghost,  and 
heaven, 

Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavor — 
Frail  spells,  whose  uttered  charm  might  not 
avail  to  sever 

From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see 
Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 

Thy  light  alone,  like  mist  o’er  mountains 
driven, 

Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent 
Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 
Or  moonlight  on  a midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life’s  unquiet  dream. 

Love,  hope,  and  self-esteem,  like  clouds  de- 
part 

And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments 
lent. 

Man  were  immortal  and  omnipotent 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  with- 
in his  heart. 

Thou  messenger  of  sympathies 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lover’s  eyes ! 
Thou  that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a dying  flame ! 

Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came ! 

Depart  not,  lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a dark  reality. 

While  yet  a boy  I sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 
Through  many  a listening  chamber,  cave 
and  ruin, 

And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pur- 
suing 

Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 

I called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our 
youth  is  fed ; 

I was  not  heard ; I saw  them  not. 

When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  that  sweet  time  when  winds  are 
wooing 


656 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, 

Sndden  thy  shadow  fell  on  me — 

I shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstacy ! 

I vowed  that  I wonld  dedicate  my  powers 
To  thee  and  thine ; have  I not  kept  the 
vow? 

With  heating  heart  and  streaming  eyes, 
even  now 

I call  the  phantoms  of  a thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave.  They  have  in 
visioned  bowers 

Of  studious  zeal  or  love’s  delight 
Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night ; 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst 
free 

This  world  from  its  dark  slavery — 

That  thou,  O awful  loveliness, 

Wouldst  give  whate’er  these  words  cannot 
express. 

The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past ; there  is  a harmony 
In  Autumn,  and  a lustre  in  its  sky, 

Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  nor 
seen, 

As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 

Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee — 
Whom,  Spirit  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


SWEET  IS  THE  PLEASUPvE. 

Sweet  is  the  pleasure 
Itself  cannot  spoil ! 

Is  not  true  leisure 
One  with  true  toil  ? 

Thou  that  wouldst  taste  it, 
Still  do  thy  best ; 

Use  it,  not  waste  it — 

Else ’t  is  no  rest. 


Wouldst  behold  beauty 
Near  thee  ? all  round  ? 

Only  hath  duty 
Such  a sight  found. 

Rest  is  not  quitting 
The  busy  career ; 

Rest  is  the  fitting 
Of  self  to  its  sphere. 

’T  is  the  brook’s  motion, 

Clear  without  strife, 

Fleeing  to  ocean 
After  its  life. 

Deeper  devotion 

Nowhere  hath  knelt ; 

Fuller  emotion 
Heart  never  felt. 

’T  is  loving  and  serving 
The  highest  and  best ! 

’T  is  onwards ! unswerving — 
And  that  is  true  rest. 

John  Sulliyan  Dwight. 


STANZAS. 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought ; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 
What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils ; 

Han  by  man  was  never  seen ; 

All  our  deep  communing  fails 
To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known ; 
Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet ; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 
Of  a temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 
Far  apart  though  seeming  near, 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie ; 

All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


657 


"What  is  social  company 

But  a babbling  summer  stream  ? 

What  our  wise  philosophy 
But  the  glancing  of  a dream  ? 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 

Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  hath  taught, 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 
By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 
And  by  inspiration  led 
Which  they  never  drew  from  earth, 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 

Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run, 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again, 

Melting,  flowing  into  one. 

Cheistophee  Peaese  Cbanch. 


THE  TABLES  TURNED. 

Up  ! up,  my  friend ! and  quit  your  books, 
Or  surely  you  ’ll  grow  double ; 

Up ! up,  my  friend ! and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 

The  sun,  above  the  mountain’s  head, 

A freshening  lustre  mellow 
Through  all  the  long,  green  fields  has  spread, 
His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books ! ’t  is  a dull  and  endless  strife ; 

Come,  hear  the  woodland  linnet — 

How  sweet  his  music ! on  my  life, 

There ’s  more  of  wisdom  in  it ! 

And  hark ! how  blithe  the  throstle  sings ! 

He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher ; 

Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things — 

Let  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a world  of  ready  wealth, 

Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless, — 
Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health, 
Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

42 


One  impulse  from  a vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 

Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 

Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings ; 

Our  meddling  intellect 
Misshapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things— 
We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art ; 

Close  up  those  barren  leaves ; 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 

William  Woedbwoeth. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

A CONVEKSATION. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true — • 

A pair  of  friends,  though  I was  young 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a spreading  oak, 

Beside  a mossy  seat ; 

And  from  the  turf  a fountain  broke, 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

“ Now,  Matthew ! ” said  I,  let  us  match 
This  water’s  pleasant  tune 

With  some  old  border-song  or  catch, 

That  suits  a summer’s  noon ; 

“ Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here,  beneath  the  shade, 

That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made ! ” 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 

The  gray-haired  man  of  glee : 

“No  check,  no  stay,  this  streamlet  fears ; 
How  merrily  it  goes ! 

’T  will  murmur  on  a thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 


658 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


“ And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a vigorous  man,  I lay 
Beside  this  fountain’s  brink. 

“My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 

My  heart  is  idly  stirred ; 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I heard. 

“ Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay ; 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 
Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

“ The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 

The  lark  above  the  hill, 

Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

“ With  Mature  never  do  they  wage 
A foolish  strife ; they  see 
A happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free. 

“ But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws ; 

And  often,  glad  no  more, 

We  wear  a face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

“ If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 

The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone  ; 
My  life  has  been  approved, 

And  many  love  me ; but  by  none 
Am  I enough  beloved ! ” 

“ Mow  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains ! 

I live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Hpon  these  happy  plains ; 

* And,  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead, 

I ’ll  be  a son  to  thee  ! ” 

At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said 
“ Alas ! that  camot  be.” 


We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side ; 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide ; 

And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard’s  rock, 

He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 

William  Wobdbwobth. 

. 

THE  CROWDED  STREET. 

Let  me  move  slowly  through  the  street, 
Filled  with  an  ever-shifting  train, 

Amid  the  sound  of  steps  that  beat 
The  murmuring  walks  like  autumn  rain. 

How  fast  the  flitting  figures  come  ! 

The  mild,  the  fierce,  the  stony  face — 

Some  bright  with  thoughtless  smiles,  and  some 
Where  secret  tears  have  left  their  trace. 

They  pass  to  toil,  to  strife,  to  rest — 

To  halls  in  which  the  feast  is  spread — 

To  chambers  where  the  funeral  guest 
In  silence  sits  beside  the  dead. 

And  some  to  happy  homes  repair, 

Where  children,  pressing  cheek  to  cheek, 

With  mute  caresses  shall  declare 
The  tenderness  they  cannot  speak. 

And  some,  who  walk  in  calmness  here, 

Shall  shudder  as  they  reach  the  door 

Where  one  who  made  their  dwelling  dear, 

Its  flower,  its  light,  is  seen  no  more. 

Youth,  with  pale  cheek  and  slender  frame, 
And  dreams  of  greatness  in  thine  eye ! 

Go’st  thou  to  build  an  early  name, 

Or  early  in  the  task  to  die  ? 

Keen  son  of  trade,  with  eager  brow  I 
Who  is  now  fluttering  in  thy  snare  ? 

Thy  golden  fortunes,  tower  they  now, 

Or  melt  the  glittering  spires  in  air  ? 


THE  SUNKEN  CITY.  659 


Who  of  this  crowd  to-night  shall  tread 
The  dance  till  daylight  gleam  again  ? 

Who  sorrow  o’er  the  untimely  dead  ? 

Who  writhe  in  throes  of  mortal  pain  ? 

Some,  famine-struck,  shall  think  how  long 
The  cold  dark  hours,  how  slow  the  light ; 

And  some,  who  flaunt  amid  the  throng, 
Shall  hide  in  dens  of  shame  to-night. 

Each  where  his  tasks  or  pleasures  call, 

They  pass,  and  heed  each  other  not. 

There  is  who  heeds,  who  holds  them  all 
In  his  large  love  and  boundless  thought. 

These  struggling  tides  of  life,  that  seem 
In  wayward,  aimless  course  to  tend, 

Are  eddies  of  the  mighty  stream 
That  rolls  to  its  appointed  end. 

William  Cullen  Bet  ant. 


GOOD-BYE. 

Good-bye,  proud  world ! I ’m  going  home ; 
Thou  art  not  my  friend,  and  I ’m  not  thine. 
Long  through  thy  weary  crowds  I roam ; 

A river-ark  on  the  ocean  brine, 

Long  I ’ve  been  tossed  like  the  driven  foam ; 
But  now,  proud  world ! I ’m  going  home. 

Good-bye  to  Flattery’s  fawning  face ; 

To  Grandeur  with  his  wise  grimace ; 

To  upstart  Wealth’s  averted  eye ; 

To  supple  Office,  low  and  high ; 

To  crowded  halls,  to  court  and  street ; 

To  frozen  hearts  and  hasting  feet ; 

To  those  who  go  and  those  who  come — 
Good-bye,  proud  world ! I ’m  going  home. 

I am  going  to  my  own  hearth-stone, 

Bosomed  in  yon  green  hills  alone — 

A secret  nook  in  a pleasant  land, 

Whose  groves  the  frolic  fairies  planned ; 
Where  arches  green,  the  livelong  day, 

Echo  the  blackbird’s  roundelay, 

And  vulgar  feet  have  never  trod — 

A spot  that  is  sacred  to  thought  and  God. 


O,  when  I am  safe  in  my  sylvan  home, 

; I tread  on  the  pride  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
And  when  I am  stretched  beneath  the  pines, 
Where  the  evening  star  so  holy  shines, 

I laugh  at  the  lore  and  the  pride  of  man, 

At  the  sophist  schools,  and  the  learned  clan ; 
For  what  are  they  all,  in  their  high  conceit, 
When  man  in  the  bush  with  God  may  meet  ? 

Kalph  Waldo  Emebson. 


THE  SUNKEN  CITY. 

Haek  1 the  faint  bells  of  the  sunken  city 
Peal  once  more  their  wonted  evening- 
chime  ; 

From  the  deep’s  abysses  floats  a ditty, 

Wild  and  wondrous,  of  the  olden  time. 

Temples,  towers,  and  domes  of  many  stories 
There  lie  buried  in  an  ocean-grave — 
Undescried,  save  when  their  golden  glories 
Gleam,  at  sunset,  through  the  lighted  wave. 

And  the  mariner  who  hath  seen  them  glisten, 
In  whose  ears  those  magic  bells  do  sound, 
Night  by  night  bides  there  to  watch  and  lis- 
ten, 

Though  Death  lurks  behind  each  dark  rock 
round. 

So  the  bells  of  memory’s  wonder-city 
Peal  for  me  their  old  melodious  chime : 

So  my  heart  pours  forth  a changeful  ditty, 
Sad  and  pleasant,  from  the  bygone  time. 

Domes,  and  towers,  and  castles,  fancy-builded, 
There  lie  lost  to  daylight’s  garish  beams— 
There  lie  hidden,  till  unveiled  and  gilded, 
Glory-gilded,  by  my  nightly  dreams ! 

And  then  hear  I music  sweet  upknelling 
From  many  a well-known  phantom-band, 
And,  through  tears,  can  see  my  natural  dwell- 
ing 

Far  off  in  the  spirit’s  luminous  land ! 

WiLnELM  Muelleb  (German). 
Translation  of  .James  Claeence  Manoan. 


660 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


GUY. 

Mobtal  mixed  of  middle  clay, 
Attempered  to  tlie  night  and  day, 
Interchangeable  with  things, 

Needs  no  amnlets  nor  rings. 

Gny  possessed  the  talisman 
That  all  things  from  him  began ; 

And  as,  of  old,  Polycrates 
Chained  the  sunshine  and  the  breeze, 
So  did  Guy  betimes  discover 
Fortune  was  his  guard  and  lover — 

In  strange  junctures  felt,  with  awe, 
His  own  symmetry  with  law ; 

So  that  no  mixture  could  withstand 
The  virtue  of  his  lucky  hand. 

He  gold  or  jewel  could  not  lose, 

Nor  not  receive  his  ample  dues. 

In  the  street,  if  he  turned  round, 

His  eye  the  eye ’t  was  seeking  found. 
It  seemed  his  genius  discreet 
Worked  on  the  maker’s  own  receipt, 
And  made  each  tide  and  element 
Stewards  of  stipend  and  of  rent ; 

So  that  the  common  waters  fell 
As  costly  wine  into  his  well. 

He  had  so  sped  his  wise  affairs 
That  he  caught  nature  in  his  snares : 
Early  or  late,  the  falling  rain 
Arrived  in  time  to  swell  his  grain ; 
Stream  could  not  so  perversely  wind 
But  corn  of  Guy’s  was  there  to  grind ; 
The  siroc  found  it  on  its  way 
To  speed  his  sails,  to  dry  his  hay; 

And  the  world’s  sun  seemed  to  rise 
To  drudge  all  day  for  Guy  the  wise. 

In  his  rich  nurseries  timely  skill 
Strong  crab  with  nobler  blood  did  fill  ; 
The  zephyr  in  his  garden  rolled 
From  plum-trees  vegetable  gold ; 

And  all  the  hours  of  the  year 
With  their  own  harvest  honored  were. 
There  was  no  frost  but  welcome  came, 
Nor  freshet,  nor  midsummer  flame. 
Belonged  to  wind  and  world  the  toil 
And  venture,  and  to  Guy  the  oil. 

Balph  Waldo  Emerson. 


TEMPERANCE,  OR  THE  CHEAP  PHY- 
SICIAN. 

Go  now ! and  with  some  daring  drug 
Bait  thy  disease ; and,  whilst  they  tug, 

Thou,  to  maintain  their  precious  strife, 

Spend  the  dear  treasures  of  thy  life. 

Go ! take  physic — dote  upon 
Some  big-named  composition, 

The  oraculous  doctor’s  mystic  bills — 

Certain  hard  words  made  into  pills ; 

And  what  at  last  shalt  gain  by  these  ? 

Only  a costlier  disease. 

That  which  makes  us  have  no  need 
Of  physic,  that ’s  physic  indeed. 

Hark,  hither,  reader ! wilt  thou  see 
Nature  her  own  physician  be  ? 

Wilt  see  a man  all  his  own  wealth, 

His  own  music,  his  own  health — 

A man  whose  sober  soul  can  tell 
How  to  wear  her  garments  well — 

Her  garments  that  upon  her  sit 
As  garments  should  do,  close  and  fit — 

A well-clothed  soul  that ’s  not  oppressed 
Nor  choked  with  what  she  should  be  dressed — 
A soul  sheathed  in  a crystal  shrine, 

Through  which  all  her  bright  features  shine : 
As  when  a piece  of  wanton  lawn, 

A thin  aerial  veil,  is  drawn 
O’er  beauty’s  face,  seeming  to  hide, 

More  sweetly  shows  the  blushing  bride — 

A soul  whose  intellectual  beams 
No  mists  do  mask,  no  lazy  streams — 

A happy  soul,  that  all  the  way 
To  heaven  hath  a summer’s  day? 

Would’st  see  a man  whose  well- warmed  blood 
Bathes  him  in  a genuine  flood  ? — 

A man  whose  tuned  humors  be 
A seat  of  rarest  harmony  ? 

Would’st  see  blithe  looks,  fresh  cheeks,  be- 
guile 

Age?  Would’st  see  December  smile? 
Would’st  see  nests  of  new  roses  grow 
In  a bed  of  reverend  snow  ? 

Warm  thoughts,  free  spirits  flattering 
Winter’s  self  into  a Spring? — 

In  sum,  would’st  see  a man  that  can 
Live  to  be  old,  and  still  a man? 

Whose  latest  and  most  leaden  hours 

Fall  with  soft  wings,  stuck  with  soft  flowers ; 


ABSTRACT  OF 

And  when  life’s  sweet  fable  ends, 

Soul  and  body  part  like  friends — 

No  quarrels,  murmurs,  no  delay — 

A kiss,  a sigh,  and  so  away  ? 

This  rare  one,  reader,  would’st  thou  see  ? 
Hark,  hither ! and  thyself  be  he. 

Kichabd  Cbashaw. 


SMOKING  SPIRITUALIZED. 

PART  I. 

This  Indian  weed,  now  withered  quite, 

Though  green  at  noon,  cut  down  at  night, 
Shows  thy  decay — 

All  flesh  is  hay : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  pipe,  so  lily-like  and  weak, 

Does  thus  thy  mortal  state  bespeak  ; 

Thou  art  e’en  such — 

Gone  with  a touch : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  when  the  smoke  ascends  on  high, 

Then  thou  behold’st  the  vanity 
Of  worldly  stuff— 

Gone  with  a puff : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  when  the  pipe  grows  foul  within, 

Think  on  thy  soul  defiled  with  sin ; 

For  then  the  fire 
It  does  require : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  seest  the  ashes  cast  away, 

Then  to  thyself  thou  mayest  say 
That  to  the  dust 
Return  thou  must : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

PART  II. 

Was  this  small  plant  for  thee  cut  down? 

So  was  the  plant  of  great  renown, 

Which  Mercy  sends 
For  nobler  ends: 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 


MELANCHOLY.  661 

Doth  juice  medicinal  proceed 

From  such  a naughty  foreign  weed  ? 

Then  what ’s  the  power 
Of  Jesse’s  flower  ? 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  promise,  like  the  pipe,  inlays, 

And  by  the  mouth  of  faith  conveys 
What  virtue  flows 
From  Sharon’s  rose : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

In  vain  the  unlighted  pipe  you  blow — 

Your  pains  in  outward  means  are  so, 

’Till  heavenly  fire 
Your  heart  inspire : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  smoke  like  burning  incense  towers; 

So  should  a praying  heart  of  yours 
With  ardent  cries 
Surmount  the  skies : 

Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Anonymous. 


ABSTRACT  OF  MELANCHOLY. 

When  I go  musing  all  alone, 

Thinking  of  divers  things  foreknown-  • 
When  I build  castles  in  the  air, 

Void  of  sorrow,  void  of  fear, 

Pleasing  myself  with  phantasms  sweet, 
Methinks  the  time  runs  very  fleet. 

All  my  joys  to  this  are  folly ; 
Nought  so  sweet  as  melancholy. 

When  I go  walking  all  alone, 

Recounting  what  I have  ill-done, 

My  thoughts  on  me  then  tyrannize ; 

Fear  and  sorrow  mo  surprise ; 

Whether  I tarry  still  or  go, 

Methinks  the  time  moves  very  slow. 

All  my  griefs  to  this  are  jolly ; 
Nought  so  sad  as  melancholy. 

When  to  myself  I act  and  smile, 

With  pleasing  thoughts  the  time  beguile, 


662  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


By  a brook  side,  or  wood  so  green, 
Unbeard,  nnsonght  for,  or  unseen, 

A thousand  pleasures  do  me  bless, 

And  crown  my  soul  with  happiness. 

All  my  joys  besides  are  folly ; 

None  so  sweet  as  melancholy. 

When  I lie,  sit,  or  walk  alone, 

I sigh,  I grieve,  making  great  moan ; 

In  a dark  grove  or  irksome  den, 

With  discontents  and  furies  then, 

A thousand  miseries  at  once 
My  heavy  heart  and  soul  ensconce. 

All  my  griefs  to  this  are  jolly ; 

None  so  sour  as  melancholy. 

Methinks  I hear,  methinks  I see, 

Sweet  music,  wondrous  melody ; 

Towns,  palaces,  and  cities  fine — 

Here  now,  then  there ; the  world  is  mine ; 
Rare  beauties,  gallant  ladies  shine ; 
WRate’er  is  lovely  is  divine. 

All  other  joys  to  this  are  folly ; 
None  so  sweet  as  melancholy. 

Methinks  I hear,  methinks  I see, 

Ghosts,  goblins,  fiends : my  phantasie 
Presents  a thousand  ugly  shapes — 
Headless  bears,  black  men,  and  apes ; 
Doleful  outcries  and  fearful  sights 
My  sad  and  dismal  soul  affrights. 

All  my  griefs  to  this  are  jolly ; 

None  so  damned  as  melancholy. 

Bobebt  Bteton. 


HENCE  ALL  YOU  VAIN  DELIGHTS. 

Hence  all  you  vain  delights, 

As  short  as  are  the  nights 

WRerein  you  spend  your  folly ! 

There ’s  nought  in  this  life  sweet, 

If  man  were  wise  to  see ’t, 

But  only  melancholy ; 

0 sweetest  melancholy ! 

Welcome  folded  arms  and  fixed  eyes, 

A sigh  that,  piercing,  mortifies, 

A look  that ’s  fastened  to  the  ground, 

A tongue  chained  up  without  a sound ! 


Fountain  heads  and  pathless  groves; 

Places  which  pale  passion  loves ; 

Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed,  save  bats  and  owls ; 

A midnight  bell,  a parting  groan — 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a still  gloom  j 
valley. 

Nothing ’s  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  mel- 
ancholy. 

Be  ATMOS  T AND  F LETCHES. 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY. 

Come,  let  us  set  our  careful  breasts, 

Like  Philomel,  against  the  thorn, 

To  aggravate  the  inward  grief 
That  makes  her  accents  so  forlorn ; 

The  world  has  many  cruel  points 
Whereby  our  bosoms  have  been  torn, 
And  there  are  dainty  themes  of  grief, 

In  sadness  to  outlast  the  morn — 

True  honor’s  dearth,  affection’s  death, 
Neglectful  pride,  and  cankering  scorn, 
With  all  the  piteous  tales  that  tears 
Have  watered  since  the  world  was  born. 

The  world ! — it  is  a wilderness, 

WRere  tears  are  hung  on  every  tree ; 

For  thus  my  gloomy  phantasy 
Makes  all  things  weep  with  me. 

Come,  let  us  sit  and  watch  the  sky, 

And  fancy  clouds  where  no  clouds  be ; 
Grief  is  enough  to  blot  the  eye, 

And  make  heaven  black  with  misery. 
Why  should  birds  sing  such  merry  notes, 
Unless  they  were  more  blest  than  we  ? 
No  sorrow  ever  chokes  their  throats — 
Except  sweet  nightingale ; for  she 
Was  born  to  pain  our  hearts  the  more. 
With  her  sad  melody. 

Why  shines  the  sun,  except  that  he 
Makes  gloomy  nooks  for  Grief  to  hide, 
And  pensive  shades  for  melancholy, 
When  all  the  earth  is  bright  beside  ? 


ODE  TO  MELANCHOLY 


663 


Let  clay  wear  smiles,  and  green  grass  wave ; 
Mirth  shall  not  win  us  back  again, 

Whilst  man  is  made  of  his  own  grave, 

And  fairest  clouds  but  gilded  rain ! 

I saw  my  mother  in  her  shroud ; 

Her  cheek  was  cold  and  very  pale ; 

And  ever  since  I ’ve  looked  on  all 
As  creatures  doomed  to  fail ! 

Why  do  buds  ope,  except  to  die  ? 

Aye,  let  us  watch  the  roses  wither, 

And  think  of  our  loves’  cheeks ; 

And  0,  how  quickly  time  doth  fly 
To  bring  death’s  winter  hither ! 

Minutes,  hours,  days,  and  weeks, 

Months,  years,  and  ages,  shrink  to  nought — 
An  age  past  is  but  a thought ! 

Aye,  let  us  think  of  him  a while 
That,  with  a coffin  for  a boat, 

Rows  daily  o’er  the  Stygian  moat ; 

And  for  our  table  choose  a tomb. 

There ’s  dark  enough  in  any  skull 
To  charge  with  black  a raven  plume ; 

And  for  the  saddest  funeral  thoughts 
A winding-sheet  hath  ample  room, 

Where  Death,  with  his  keen-pointed  style, 
Hath  writ  the  common  doom. 

How  wide  the  yew-tree  spreads  its  gloom, 
And  o’er  the  dead  lets  fall  its  dew, 

As  if  in  tears  it  wept  for  them, 

The  many  human  families 
That  sleep  around  its  stem ! 

How  cold  the  dead  have  made  these 
stones, 

With  natural  drops  kept  ever  wet ! 

Lo ! here  the  best,  the  worst,  the  world 
Doth  now  remember  or  forget 
Are  in  one  common  ruin  hurled ; 

And  love  and  hate  are  calmly  met — 

The  loveliest  eyes  that  ever  shone, 

The  fairest  hands,  and  locks  of  jet. 

Is ’t  not  enough  to  vex  our  souls 
And  fill  our  eyes,  that  we  have  set 
Our  love  upon  a rose’s  leaf, 

Our  hearts  upon  a violet  ? 

Blue  eyes,  red  cheeks,  are  frailer  yet ; 

And,  sometimes,  at  their  swift  decay 
Beforehand  we  must  fret. 

The  roses  bud  and  bloom  again ; 


But  love  may  haunt  the  grave  of  love, 

And  watch  the  mould  in  vain. 

O clasp  me,  sweet,  whilst  thou  art  mine, 
And  do  not  take  my  tears  amiss ; 

For  tears  must  flow  to  wash  away 
A thought  that  shows  so  stern  as  this. 
Forgive,  if  some  while  I forget, 

In  woe  to  come,  the  present  bliss. 

As  frighted  Proserpine  let  fall 
Her  flowers  at  the  sight  of  Dis, 

Ev’n  so  the  dark  and  bright  will  kiss. 

The  sunniest  things  throw  sternest  shade ; 
And  there  is  even  a happiness 
That  makes  the  heart  afraid. 

How  let  us  with  a spell  invoke 

The  full-orbed  moon  to  grieve  our  eyes ; 

Hot  bright,  not  bright — but,  with  a cloud 

Lapped  all  about  her,  let  her  rise 

All  pale  and  dim,  as  if  from  rest 

The  ghost  of  the  late  buried  sun 

Had  crept  into  the  skies. 

The  moon ! she  is  the  source  of  sighs, 

The  very  face  to  make  us  sad, 

If  but  to  think  in  other  times 
The  same  calm,  quiet  look  she  had, 

As  if  the  world  held  nothing  base, 

Of  vile  and  mean,  of  fierce  and  bad — 

The  same  fair  light  that  shone  in  streams, 
The  fairy  lamp  that  charmed  the  lad ; 

For  so  it  is,  with  spent  delights 
She  taunts  men’s  brain’s,  and  makes  them 
mad. 

All  things  are  touched  with  melancholy, 
Born  of  the  secret  soul’s  mistrust 
To  feel  her  fair  ethereal  wings 
Weighed  down  with  vile,  degraded  dust. 
Even  the  bright  extremes  of  joy 
Bring  on  conclusions  of  disgust — 

Like  the  sweet  blossoms  of  the  May, 

Whose  fragrance  ends  in  must. 

O give  her,  then,  her  tribute  just, 
ner  sighs  and  tears,  and  musings  holy ! 
There  is  no  music  in  the  life 
That  sounds  with  idiot  laughter  solely ; 
There ’s  not  a string  attuned  to  mirth, 

But  has  its  chord  in  melancholy. 

Thomas  IIood. 


J 


664 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


DEJECTION:  AN  ODE. 

Late,  late  yestreen  I saw  the  new  moon, 
With  the  old  moon  in  her  arms; 

And  I fear,  I fear,  my  master  dear ! 

We  shall  have  a deadly  storm. 

Ballad  op  Sib  Patbick  Spence. 


Well!  if  the  bard  was  weather-wise,  who 
made 

The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go 
hence 

Unroused  by  winds  that  ply  a busier  trade 
Than  those  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy 
flakes, 

Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft  that  moans  and 
rakes 

Upon  the  strings  of  this  Eolian  lute, 
Which  better  far  were  mute. 

For  lo ! the  new-moon,  winter-bright, 

And  overspread  with  phantom  light — 
With  swimming  phantom  light  o’erspread, 
But  rimmed  and  circled  by  a silver  thread ! 

I see  the  old  moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 
The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  0 ! that  even  now  the  gust  were  swell- 
ing, 

And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud 
and  fast ! 

Those  sounds,  which  oft  have  raised  me  whilst 
they  awed, 

And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 

Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse 
give— 

Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move 
and  live. 

ii. 

A grief  without  a pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear — 
A stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassioned  grief, 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 

In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

O lady ! in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 

To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  wooed, 
All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene, 
Save  I been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green ; 

And  still  I gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye ! 


And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and 
bars, 

That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars — 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  be- 
tween, 

Now  sparkling,  now  bedimmed,  but  always 
seen — 

Yon  crescent  moon,  as  fixed  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue : 

I see  them  all  so  excellently  fair — 

I see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are ! 

in. 

My  genial  spirits  fail ; 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my 
breast  ? 

It  were  a vain  endeavor, 

Though  I should  gaze  forever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west : 

I may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life  whose  fountains  are 
within. 

IV. 

0 lady ! we  receive  but  what  we  give, 

And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live ; 

Ours  is  her  wedding-garment,  ours  her 
shroud ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold  of  higher 
worth 

Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowed 
To  the  poor,  loveless,  ever-anxious  crowd — 
Ah ! from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A light,  a glory,  a fair  luminous  cloud 
Enveloping  the  earth ; 

And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 
A sweet  and  potent  voice  of  its  own  birth, 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 

v. 

O pure  of  heart ! thou  need’st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be — 
What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist — 

This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 
This  beautiful  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  lady!  Joy  that  ne’er  was 
given 

Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour — 
Life,  and  life’s  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and 
shower — 


DEJECTION  — AN  ODE. 


665 


Joy,  lady,  is  the  spirit  and  the  power 
Which,  wedding  nature  to  us,  gives  in  dower 
A new  earth  and  new  heaven, 

Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud — 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  joy  the  luminous 
cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice ! 

And  thence  flows  all  that  charms  our  ear  or 
sight — 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice, 

All  colors  a suffusion  from  that  light. 

VI. 

There  was  a time  when,  though  my  path  was 
rough, 

This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress; 
And  all  misfortunes  were  hut  as  the  stuff 
Whence  fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happi- 
ness. 

For  hope  grow  round  me  like  the  twining 
vine; 

And  fruits  and  foliage,  not  my  own,  seemed 
mine. 

But  now  afflictions  how  me  down  to  earth, 
Nor  care  I that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth ; 

But  0 ! each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 
My  shaping  spirit  of  imagination. 

For  not  to  think  of  what  I needs  must  feel, 
But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I can ; 

And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 
From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man — 
This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan : 
Till  that  which  suits  a part  infects  the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my 
soul. 

VII. 

Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my 
mind— 

Reality’s  dark  dream ! 

I turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind, 
Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.  What  a 
scream 

Of  agony,  by  torture  lengthened  out, 

That  lute  sent  forth ! Thou  wind,  that  ravest 
without  I 

Bare  crag,  or  mountain-tairn,  or  blasted 
tree, 

Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb, 


Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches’ 
home, 

Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee, 

Mad  lutanist ! who,  in  this  month  of  showers, 

Of  dark  brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping 
flowers, 

Mak’st  devils’  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry 
song, 

The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves 
among ! 

Thou  actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  si>;r>  - ! 

Thou  mighty  poet,  e’en  to  frenzy  boh. 

What  tell’st  thou  now  about  ? 

’T  is  of  the  rushing  of  a host  in  rout, 

With  groans  of  trampled  men,  with  smart- 
ing wounds — 

At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder 
with  the  cold. 

But  hush ! there  is  a pause  of  deepest  silence ! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a rushing  crowd, 

With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings — all 
is  over — 

It  tells  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep 
and  loud ! 

A tale  of  less  affright, 

And  tempered  with  delight, 

As  Otway’s  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay : 

’T  is  of  a little  child 
Upon  a lonesome  wild — 

Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her 
way; 

And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and 
fear — 

And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make 
her  mother  hear. 

VIII. 

’T  is  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I of 
sleep ; 

Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils 
keep! 

Visit  her,  gentle  Sleep,  with  wings  of  heal- 
ing! 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a mountain- 
birth  ; 

May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  hei 
dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watched  the  sleeping 
earth ! 

With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 

Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes — 


666 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice! 

To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole — 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

O simple  spirit,  guided  from  above ! 

Dear  lady ! friend  devoutest  of  my  choice ! 
Thus  mayest  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleeidge. 


SIR  MARMADUKE. 

Sin  Makmadtjke  was  a hearty  knight — 
Good  man ! old  man ! 

He ’s  painted  standing  bolt  upright, 

"With  his  hose  rolled  over  his  knee ; 
His  periwig ’s  as  white  as  chalk, 

And  on  his  fist  he  holds  a hawk ; 

And  he  looks  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

His  dining-room  was  long  and  wide — 
Good  man ! old  man ! 

His  spaniels  lay  by  the  fireside ; 

And  in  other  parts,  d’ye  see, 
Cross-bows,  tobacco-pipes,  old  hats, 

A saddle,  his  wife,  and  a litter  of  cats ; 
And  he  looked  like  the  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

He  never  turned  the  poor  from  the  gate — 
Good  man ! old  man ! 

But  was  always  ready  to  break  the  pate 
Of  his  country’s  enemy. 

What  knight  could  do  a better  thing 
Than  serve  the  poor,  and  fight  for  his  king? 
And  so  may  every  head 
Of  an  ancient  family. 

Geoege  Colman,  “ the  younger.” 


I AM  A FRIAR  OF  ORDERS  GRAY. 

I am  a friar  of  orders  gray, 

And  down  in  the  valleys  I take  my  wray ; 
I pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip — 
Good  store  of  venison  fills  my  scrip ; 

My  long  bead-roll  I merrily  chant ; 
Where’er  I walk  no  money  I want ; 


And  why  I ’m  so  plump  the  reason  I tell — 
Who  leads  a good  life  is  sure  to  live  well. 
What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a holy  friar 

After  supper  of  heaven  I dream, 

But  that  is  a pullet  and  clouted  cream ; 
Myself,  by  denial,  I mortify — 

With  a dainty  bit  of  a warden  pie ; 

I ’m  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin — 
With  old  sack  wine  I ’m  lined  within ; 

A chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 

And  the  vesper’s  bell  is  my  bowl,  ding  dong. 
What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 

Lives  half  so  well  as  a holy  friar  ? 

John  O’Keefe. 


THE  AGE  OF  WISDOM. 

Ho ! pretty  page,  with  the  dimpled  chin, 
That  never  has  known  the  barber’s  shear. 
All  your  wish  is  woman  to  win ; 

This  is  the  way  that  boys  begin — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Curly  gold  locks  cover  foolish  brains ; 

Billing  and  cooing  is  all  your  cheer — 
Sighing,  and  singing  of  midnight  strains. 
Under  Bonnybell’s  window  panes — 

Wait  till  you  come  to  forty  year. 

Forty  times  over  let  Michaelmas  pass; 

Grizzling  hair  the  brain  doth  clear ; 

Then  you  know  a boy  is  an  ass, 

Then  you  know  the  worth  of  a lass — 

Once  you  have  come  to  forty  year. 

Pledge  me  round ; I bid  ye  declare, 

All  good  fellows  whose  beards  are  gray- 
Did  not  the  fairest  of  the  fair 
Common  grow  and  wearisome  ere 
Ever  a month  was  past  away  ? 

The  reddest  lips  that  ever  have  kissed, 

The  brightest  eyes  that  ever  have  shone. 
May  pray  and  whisper  and  we  not  list, 

Or  look  away  and  never  be  missed — 

Ere  yet  ever  a month  is  gone. 


J 


OLD. 


667 


Gillian ’s  dead ! God  rest  her  bier — 

How  I loved  her  twenty  years  syne ! 
Marian’s  married ; hut  I sit  here, 

Alone  and  merry  at  forty  year, 

Dipping  my  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine. 

William  Makepeace  Thackekat. 


TO  PERILLA. 

Ah,  my  Perilla ! dost  thou  grieve  to  see 
Me,  day  by  day,  to  steal  away  from  thee  ? 
Age  calls  me  hence,  and  my  gray  hairs  bid 
come, 

And  haste  away  to  mine  eternal  home ; 

’T  will  not  he  long,  Perilla,  after  this 
That  I must  give  thee  the  supremest  kiss. 
Dead  when  I am,  first  cast  in  salt,  and  bring 
Part  of  the  cream  from  that  religious  spring, 
With  which,  Perilla,  wash  my  hands  and 
feet; 

That  done,  then  wind  me  in  that  very  sheet 
Which  wrapt  thy  smooth  limbs  when  thou 
didst  implore 

The  gods’  protection,  hut  the  night  before ; 
Follow  me  weeping  to  my  turf,  and  there 
Let  fall  a primrose,  and  with  it  a tear. 

Then  lastly,  let  some  weekly  strewings  he 
Devoted  to  the  memory  of  me ; 

Then  shall  my  ghost  not  walk  about,  but 
keep 

Still  in  the  cool  and  silent  shades  of  sleep. 

Kobert  Herrick. 


THE  ONE  GRAY  HAIR. 

The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 

And  love  to  hear  them  told ; 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a one — 

Borne  in  his  youth,  and  more  when  he  grew 
old. 

I never  sat  among 

The  choir  of  Wisdom’s  song, 


But  pretty  lies  loved  I 
As  much  as  any  king — 

When  youth  was  on  the  wing, 

And  (must  it  then  be  told  ?)  when  youth  had 
quite  gone  by. 

Alas ! and  I have  not 
The  pleasant  hour  forgot, 

When  one  pert  lady  said — 

“ 0,  Landor ! I am  quite 
Bewildered  with  affright ; 

I see  (sit  quiet  now!)  a white  hair  on  your 
head!” 

Another,  more  benign, 

Drew  out  that  hair  of  mine, 

And  in  her  own  dark  hair 
Pretended  she  had  found 
That  one,  and  twirled  it  round. — 
Fair  as  she  was,  she  never  was  so  fair. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


OLD. 

By  the  wayside,  on  a mossy  stone, 

Sat  a hoary  pilgrim  sadly  musing ; 

Oft  I marked  him  sitting  there  alone, 

All  the  landscape  like  a page  perusing ; 
Poor,  unknown — 

By  the  wayside,  on  a mossy  stone. 

Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-rimmed 
hat; 

Coat  as  ancient  as  the  form ’t  was  folding ; 
Silver  buttons,  queue,  and  crimpt  cravat ; 
Oaken  staff,  his  feeble  hand  upholding — 
There  he  sat ! 

Buckled  knee  and  shoe,  and  broad-rimmed 
hat. 

Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there, 

No  one  sympathizing,  no  one  heeding- — 
None  to  love  him  for  his  thin  gray  hair, 

And  the  furrows  all  so  mutely  pleading 
Age  and  care — 

Seemed  it  pitiful  he  should  sit  there. 


668 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  DEFLECTION. 


It  was  summer,  and  we  went  to  school — 
Dapper  country  lads,  and  little  maidens ; 
Taught  the  motto  of  the  “ dunce’s  stool,” 

Its  grave  import  still  my  fancy  ladens — 
“Here ’s  a fool!” 

It  was  summer,  and  we  went  to  school. 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  play, 
Some  of  us  were  joyous,  some  sad-hearted. 
I remember  well — too  well,  that  day ! 
Oftentimes  the  tears  unbidden  started, 
Would  not  stay, 

When  the  stranger  seemed  to  mark  our  play. 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell — 

Ah ! to  me  her  name  was  always  heaven ! 
She  besought  him  all  his  grief  to  tell, 

(I  was  then  thirteen,  and  she  eleven,) — 
Isabel ! 

One  sweet  spirit  broke  the  silent  spell. 

Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I am  old — 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a morrow ; 
Yet,  why  I sit  here  thou  shalt  he  told — 
Then  his  eye  betrayed  a pearl  of  sorrow ; 
Down  it  rolled ! 

Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I am  old ! 

I have  tottered  here  to  look  once  more 
On  the  pleasant  scene  where  I delighted 
In  the  careless,  happy  days  of  yore, 

Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 
To  the  core — 

I have  tottered  here  to  look  once  more ! 

All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear ! 

E’en  this  gray  old  rock  where  I am  seated 
Is  a jewel  worth  my  journey  here; 

Ah,  that  such  a scene  must  be  completed 
With  a tear ! 

All  the  picture  now  to  me  how  dear ! 

Old  stone  school-house ! — it  is  still  the  same ! 

There ’s  the  very  step  I so  oft  mounted ; 
There ’s  the  window  creaking  in  its  frame, 
And  the  notches  that  I cut  and  counted 
For  the  game ; 

Old  stone  school-house ! — it  is  still  the  same ! 


In  the  cottage,  yonder,  I was  born ; 

Long  my  happy  home — that  humble  dwell- 
ing; 

There  the  fields  of  clover,  wheat,  and  corn— 
There  the  spring,  with  limpid  nectar  swell 
ing; 

Ah,  forlorn ! 

In  the  cottage,  yonder,  I was  born. 

Those  two  gate- way  sycamores  you  see 
Then  were  planted  just  so  far  asunder 
That  long  well-pole  from  the  path  to  free, 

And  the  wagon  to  pass  safely  under ; 
Ninety-three ! 

Those  two  gate-way  sycamores  you  see. 

There ’s  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb 
When  my  mates  and  I were  boys  together — 
Thinking  nothing  of  the  flight  of  time, 

Fearing  naught  but  work  and  rainy  wea- 
ther; 

Past  its  prime ! 

There ’s  the  orchard  where  we  used  to  climb! 

There  the  rude,  three-cornered  chestnut  rails, 
Bound  the  pasture  where  the  flocks  were 
grazing, 

Where,  so  sly,  I used  to  watch  for  quails 
In  the  crops  of  buckwheat  we  were  rais- 
ing— 

Traps  and  trails ; 

There  the  rude,  three-cornered  chestnut  rails.  • 

There’s  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow 
grain — 

Pond,  and  river,  still  serenely  flowing ; 

Cot,  there  nestling  in  the  shaded  lane 
Where  the  lily  of  my  heart  was  blowing — 
Mary  Jane ! 

There’s  the  mill  that  ground  our  yellow 
grain ! 

There ’s  the  gate  on  which  I used  to  swing— 
Brook,  and  bridge,  and  barn,  and  old  red 
stable ; 

But  alas ! no  more  the  morn  shall  bring 
That  dear  group  around  my  father’s  table — 
Taken  wing ! 

There ’s  the  gate  on  which  I used  to  swing ! 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 


669 


I am  fleeing — all  I loved  have  fled. 

Yon  green  meadow  was  our  place  for  play- 
ing; 

That  old  tree  can  tell  of  sweet  things  said 
When  around  it  Jane  and  I were  straying — 
She  is  dead ! 

I am  fleeing — all  I loved  have  fled. 

Yon  white  spire,  a pencil  on  the  sky, 

Tracing  silently  life’s  changeful  story, 

So  familiar  to  my  dim  old  eye, 

Points  me  to  seven  that  are  now  in  glory 
There  on  high — 

Yon  white  spire,  a pencil  on  the  sky ! 

Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod, 
Guided  thither  by  an  angel  mother ; 

Now  she  sleeps  beneath  its  sacred  sod ; 

> Sire  and  sisters,  and  my  little  brother 
Gone  to  God ! 

Oft  the  aisle  of  that  old  church  we  trod. 

There  I heard  of  wisdom’s  pleasant  ways — 
Bless  the  holy  Wesson ! — but,  ah  I never 

Shall  I hear  again  those  songs  of  praise, 

Those  sweet  voices — silent  now  for  ever ! 
Peaceful  days ! 

There  I heard  of  wisdom’s  pleasant  ways. 

There  my  Mary  blest  me  with  her  hand 
When  our  souls  drank  in  the  nuptial  bless- 
ing, 

Ere  she  hastened  to  the  spirit-land — 

Yonder  turf  her  gentle  bosom  pressing; 
Broken  band ! 

There  my  Mary  blest  me  with  her  hand. 

I have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more, 

And  the  sacred  place  where  we  delighted, 

Where  we  worshipped,  in  the  days  of  yore, 
Ere  the  garden  of  my  heart  was  blighted 
To  the  core — 

I have  come  to  see  that  grave  once  more. 

Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I am  old — 

Earthly  hope  no  longer  hath  a morrow ; 

Now  why  I sit  here  thou  hast  been  told — 

In  his  eye  another  pearl  of  sorrow ; 

Down  it  rolled ! 

Angel,  said  he  sadly,  I am  old ! 


By  the  wayside,  on  a mossy  stone, 

Sat  the  hoary  pilgrim,  sadly  musing ; 

Still  I marked  him  sitting  there  alone, 

All  the  landscape,  like  a page,  perusing — 
Poor,  unknown, 

By  the  wayside,  on  a mossy  stone ! 

Kalph  Hoyt. 


THE  LAST  LEAF. 

I saw  him  once  before, 

As  he  passed  by  the  door ; 

And  again 

The  pavement-stones  resound 
As  he  totters  o’er  the  ground 
With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 

Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 
Cut  him  down, 

Not  a better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 
Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 

And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 
So  forlorn ; 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said 
“ They  are  gone.” 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  pressed 
In  their  bloom ; 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a year 
On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 

Poor  old  lady ! she  is  dead 
Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a Roman  nose, 

And  his  cheek  was  like  a rose 
In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 

And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 


670 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Like  a staff ; 

And  a crook  is  in  his  back, 

And  a melancholy  crack 
In  his  laugh. 

I know  it  is  a sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 
At  him  here, 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 

And  the  breeches — and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I should  live  to  he 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 
In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I do  now, 

At  the  old  forsaken  hough 
Where  I cling. 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PLAY. 

The  play  is  done — the  curtain  drops, 

Slow  falling  to  the  prompter’s  hell ; 

A moment  yet  the  actor  stops, 

And  looks  around,  to  say  farewell. 

It  is  an  irksome  word  and  task ; 

And,  when  he ’s  laughed  and  said  his  say, 

He  shows,  as  he  removes  the  mask, 

A face  that ’s  any  thing  but  gay. 

One  word,  ere  yet  the  evening  ends — 

Let ’s  close  it  with  a parting  rhyme ; 

And  pledge  a hand  to  all  young  friends, 

As  fits  the  merry  Christmas  time  : 

On  life’s  wide  scene  you,  too,  have  parts, 
That  Fate  ere  long  shall  hid  you  play ; 

Good  night !— with  honest  gentle  hearts 
A kindly  greeting  go  alway ! 

Good  night ! — I ’d  say  the  griefs,  the  joys, 
Just  hinted  in  this  mimic  page, 

The  triumphs  and  defeats  of  boys, 

Are  hut  repeated  in  our  age. 

I ’d  say  your  woes  were  not  less  keen, 

Your  hopes  more  vain,  than  those  of  men — 

Your  pangs  or  pleasures  of  fifteen 
At  forty-five  played  o’er  again. 


I ’d  say  we  suffer  and  we  strive 
Not  less  nor  more  as  men  than  boys — 
With  grizzled  beards  at  forty-five, 

As  erst  at  twelve  in  corduroys. 

And  if,  in  time  of  sacred  youth, 

We  learned  at  home  to  love  and  pray, 

Pray  Heaven  that  early  love  and  truth 
May  nevefr  wholly  pass  away. 

And  in  the  world,  as  in  the  school, 

I ’d  say  how  fate  may  change  and  shift — 
The  prize  be  sometimes  with  the  fool, 

The  race  not  always  to  the  swift. 

The  strong  may  yield,  the  good  may  fall, 

The  great  man  be  a vulgar  clown, 

The  knave  be  lifted  over  all, 

The  kind  cast  pitilessly  down. 

Who  knows  the  inscrutable  design  ? 

Blessed  be  He  who  took  and  gave  i 
Why  should  your  mother,  Charles,  not  mine, 
Be  weeping  at  her  darling’s  grave  ? 

We  bow  to  Heaven  that  willed  it  so, 

That  darkly  rules  the  fate  of  all, 

That  sends  the  respite  or  the  blow, 

That ’s  free  to  give  or  to  recall. 

This  crowns  his  feast  with  wine  and  wit— 
Who  brought  him  to  that  mirth  and  state 
His  betters,  see,  below  him  sit, 

Or  hunger  hopeless  at  the  gate. 

Who  bade  the  mud  from  Dives’  wheel 
To  spurn  the  rags  of  Lazarus  ? 

Come,  brother,  in  that  dust  we  ’ll  kneel, 
Confessing  Heaven  that  ruled  it  thus. 

So  each  shall  mourn,  in  life’s  advance, 

Dear  hopes,  dear  friends,  untimely  killed— 
Shall  grieve  for  many  a forfeit  chance, 

And  longing  passion  unfulfilled. 

Amen ! — whatever  fate  be  sent, 

Pray  God  the  heart  may  kindly  glow, 
Although  the  head  with  cares  be  bent, 

And  whitened  with  the  winter  snow. 

Come  wealth  or  want,  come  good  or  ill, 

Let  young  and  old  accept  their  part, 

And  bow  before  the  awful  will, 

I And  bear  it  with  an  honest  heart. 


SONG. 


671 


Who  misses,  or  who  wins  the  prize — 

Go,  lose  or  conquer  as  you  can ; 

But  if  you  fail,  or  if  you  rise, 

Be  each,  pray  God,  a gentleman. 

A gentleman,  or  old  or  young ! 

(Bear  kindly  with  my  humble  lays  ;) 

The  sacred  chorus  first  was  sung 
Upon  the  first  of  Christmas  days ; 

The  shepherds  heard  it  overhead — 

The  joyful  angels  raised  it  then  : 

Glory  to  Heaven  on  high,  it  said, 

And  peace  on  earth  to  gentle  men ! 

My  song,  save  this,  is  little  worth ; 

I lay  the  weary  pen  aside, 

And  wish  you  health,  and  love,  and  mirth, 
As  fits  the  solemn  Christmas-tide. 

As  fits  the  holy  Christmas  birth, 

Be  this,  good  friends,  our  carol  still — 

Be  peace  on  earth,  be  peace  on  earth, 

To  men  of  gentle  will. 

William  Makepeace  Thackekay. 


TIME’S  CURE. 

Moubn,  0 rejoicing  heart ! 

The  hours  are  flying ; 

Each  one  some  treasure  takes, 

Each  one  some  blossom  breaks, 

And  leaves  it  dying ; 

The  chill,  dark  night  draws  near — 
The  sun  will  soon  depart, 

And  leave  thee  sighing ; 

Then  mourn,  rejoicing  heart ! 

The  hours  are  flying ! 

Rejoice,  0 grieving  heart ! 

The  hours  fly  fast — 

With  each  some  sorrow  dies, 

With  each  some  shadow  flies, 

Until  at  last 

The  red  dawn  in  the  east 
Bids  weary  night  depart, 

And  pain  is  past : 

Rejoice  then,  grieving  heart  1 
The  hours  fly  fast ! 

Anonymous. 


A PETITION  TO  TIME. 

Touch  us  gently,  Time ! 

Let  us  glide  adown  thy  stream 
Gently — as  we  sometimes  glide 
Through  a quiet  dream. 

Humble  voyagers  are  we, 

Husband,  wife,  and  children  three — 
(One  is  lost — an  angel,  fled 
To  the  azure  overhead !) 

Touch  us  gently,  Time  ! 

We ’ve  not  proud  nor  soaring  wings: 
Our  ambition,  our  content, 

Lies  in  simple  things. 

Humble  voyagers  are  we, 

O’er  life’s  dim,  unsounded  sea, 

Seeking  only  some  calm  clime  ; — 
Touch  us  gently,  gentle  Time ! 

Barky  Cornwall. 


SONG. 

Time  is  a feathered  thing, 

And  whilst  I praise 

The  sparklings  of  thy  looks,  and  call  them 
rays, 

Takes  wing — 

Leaving  behind  him,  as  he  flies, 

An  unperceived  dimness  in  thine  eyes. 

His  minutes,  whilst  they  are  told, 

Do  make  us  old ; 

And  every  sand  of  his  fleet  glass, 
Increasing  age  as  it  doth  pass, 

Insensibly  sows  wrinkles  here, 

Where  flowers  and  roses  did  appear. 

Whilst  we  do  speak,  our  fire 
Doth  into  ice  expire ; 

Flames  turn  to  frost ; 

And  ere  we  can 

Know  how  our  crow  turns  swan, 

Or  how  a silver  snow 

Springs  there  where  jet  did  grow, 

Our  fading  Spring  is  in  dull  Winter  lost. 

Anonymous. 


672 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THERE  ARE  GAINS  FOR  ALL  OUR 
LOSSES. 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses — 
There  are  balms  for  all  onr  pain ; 

But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 

It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 

And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better, 

Under  manhood’s  sterner  reign ; 

Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 

Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 

And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished, 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain ; 

We  behold  it  everywhere, 

On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air, 

But  it  never  comes  again. 

Richaed  Heney  Stoddabd. 


SONNET. 

Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 

Crumbling  away  beneath  our  very  feet ; 

Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 

In  current  unperceived,  because  so  fleet ; 

Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  they  were  sweet  in 
sowing — 

But  tares,  self-sown,  have  overtopped  the 
wheat ; 

Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in 
blowing — 

And  still,  O still,  their  dying  breath  is  sweet ; 

And  sweet  is  youth,  although  it  hath  bereft 
us 

Of  that  which  made  our  childhood  sweeter 
still ; 

And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 

A nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 

And  sweet  are  all  things,  when  we  learn  to 
prize  them 

Not  for  their  sake,  but  His  who  grants  them 
or  denies  them ! 


THE  SOUL’S  DEFIANCE. 

I said  to  Sorrow’s  awful  storm, 

That  beat  against  my  breast, 

Rage  on ! — thou  may’st  destroy  this  form, 
And  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 

But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 
Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 

Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I said  to  Penury’s  meagre  train, 

Come  on ! your  threats  I brave ; 

My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 
And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 

Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 
Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 

And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yours 
With  bitter  smile. 

I said  to  cold  Neglect  and  Scorn, 

Pass  on ! I heed  you  not ; 

Ye  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 
And  being  are  forgot ; 

Yet  still  the  spirit  which  you  see 
Undaunted  by  your  w iles, 

Draws  from  its  own  nobility 
Its  high-born  smiles. 

I said  to  Friendship’s  menaced  blow, 
Strike  deep ! my  heart  shall  bear ; 

Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  woe 
To  those  already  there ; 

Yet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 
This  last  severe  distress, 

Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

And  scorn  redress. 

I said  to  Death’s  uplifted  dart, 

Aim  sure ! O,  why  delay  ? 

Thou  wilt  not  find  a fearful  heart — 

A weak,  reluctant  prey ; 

For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 
Unruffled  by  this  last  dismay, 

Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity, 

Shall  pass  away. 

Layinia  Stoddabd. 


Aubbey  de  Vebe. 


MUTABILITY. 


673 


NO  MORE. 

My  wind  has  turned  to  bitter  north, 

That  was  so  soft  a south  before ; 

My  sky,  that  shone  so  sunny  bright, 

With  foggy  gloom  is  clouded  o’er ; 

My  gay  green  leaves  are  yellow-black 
Upon  the  dank  autumnal  floor ; 

For  love,  departed  once,  comes  back 
No  more  again,  no  more. 

A roofless  ruin  lies  my  home, 

For  winds  to  blow  and  rains  to  pour ; 

One  frosty  night  befell — and  lo ! 

I find  my  summer  days  are  o’er. 

The  heart  bereaved,  of  why  and  how 
Unknowing,  knows  that  yet  before 

It  had  what  e’en  to  memory  now 
Returns  no  more,  no  more. 

Arthur  Hugh  Clouoh. 


QUA  CURSUM  YENTUS. 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail,  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied ; 
Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 

E’en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 
Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 
Brief  absence  joined  anew,  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged. 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered ; 

Ah  1 neither  blamed,  for  neither  willed 
Or  wist  what  first  with  dawn  appeared. 

To  veer,  how  vain ! On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks ! In  light,  in  darkness  too ! 
Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass 
guides — 

To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true. 

43 


But  0 blithe  breeze ! and  O great  seas, 
Though  ne’er  that  earliest  parting  past, 
On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought — 
One  purpose  hold  where’er  they  fare ; 

O bounding  breeze,  0 rushing  seas, 

At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there ! 

Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


STANZAS. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 
That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 

But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die ! 
Yet  on  the  rose’s  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 

As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see — 

But  none  shall  weep  a tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon’s  pale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief, 

Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away ! 

Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 

The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree — 

But  none  shall  breathe  a sigh  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa’s  desert  strand ; 
Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 

All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 
Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  effaco 
All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea—* 
But  none,  alas ! shall  mourn  for  me ! 

Kichard  Henry  Wilde. 


MUTABILITY. 

The  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  dies ; 

All  that  we  wish  to  stay 
Tempts,  and  then  flies ; 
What  is  this  world’s  delight? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 
Brief  even  as  bright. 


674  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Virtue,  how  frail  it  is ! 

Friendship  too  rare ! 

Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 
For  proud  despair ! 

But  we,  though  soon  they  fall, 
Survive  their  joy,  and  all 
Which  ours  we  call. 

I 

Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright, 
Whilst  flowers  are  gay, 

Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 
Make  glad  the  day, 

Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep, 
Dream  thou ! and  from  thy  sleep 
Then  wake  to  weep. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


SONG. 

0 say  not  that  my  heart  is  cold 
To  aught  that  once  could  warm  it — 
That  Nature’s  form,  so  dear  of  old, 

No  more  has  power  to  charm  it ; 

Or  that  the  ungenerous  world  can  chill 
One  glow  of  fond  emotion 
For  those  who  made  it  dearer  still, 

And  shared  my  wild  devotion. 

Still  oft  those  solemn  scenes  I view 
In  rapt  and  dreamy  sadness — 

Oft  look  on  those  who  loved  them  too, 
With  fancy’s  idle  gladness ; 

Again  I longed  to  view  the  light 
In  Nature’s  features  glowing, 

Again  to  tread  the  mountain’s  height, 

And  taste  the  soul’s  o’erflowing. 

Stern  Duty  rose,  and,  frowning,  flung 
His  leaden  chain  around  me ; 

With  iron  look  and  sullen  tongue 
He  muttered  as  he  bound  me, 

“The  mountain  breeze,  the  boundless 
heaven, 

Unfit  for  toil  the  creature ; 

These  for  the  free  alone  are  given — 

But  what  have  slaves  with  Nature  ? ” 
Charles  Wolfe. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Steen  daughter  of  the  voice  of  God ! 

0 Duty ! if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a light  to  guide,  a rod 

To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove — 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 

And  calm’st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  hu- 
manity ! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ; who,  in  love  and  truth, 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth : 

Glad  hearts ! without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not ; 

Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 

But  thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them 
to  stand  fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright, 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be, 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 

And  joy  its  own  security. 

And  they  a blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed ; 

Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to 
their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 

Yet  being  to  myself  a guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust; 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I now  would  serve  more  strictly, 
if  I may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

1 supplicate  for  thy  control, 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought; 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires ; 

I feel  the  weight  of  chance  desires, 


WHY  THUS  LONGING. 


My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their 
name, 

I long  for  a repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  lawgiver ! yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead’s  most  benignant  grace ; 

Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face ; 

Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 

Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong ; 
And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through 
thee,  are  fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  power ! 

I call  thee : I myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  bondman  let 
me  live ! 

William  Wordsworth. 


HUMAN  FRAILTY. 

Weak  and  irresolute  is  man; 

The  purpose  of  to-day, 

Woven  with  pains  into  his  plan, 
To-morrow  rends  away. 

The  bow  well  bent,  and  smart  the  spring, 
Vice  seems  already  slain ; 

But  Passion  rudely  snaps  the  string, 

And  it  revives  again. 

Some  foe  to  his  upright  intent 
Finds  out  his  weaker  part ; 

Virtue  engages  his  assent, 

But  Pleasure  wins  his  heart. 

’T  is  here  the  folly  of  the  wise 
Through  all  his  art  we  view ; 

And  while  his  tongue  the  charge  denies, 
His  conscience  owns  it  true. 


675 

Bound  on  a voyage  of  awful  length 
And  dangers  little  known, 

A stranger  to  superior  strength, 

Man  vainly  trusts  his  own. 

But  oars  alone  can  ne’er  prevail 
To  reach  the  distant  coast ; 

The  breath  of  Heaven  must  swell  the  sail, 
Or  all  the  toil  is  lost. 

William  Cowper. 


WHY  THUS  LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing, 

For  the  far-off,  unattained  and  dim, 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 

All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to 
fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw — 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten— 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own ; 

If  no  brother’s  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten, 

By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd’s  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown, 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal 
crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 
Every  day  a rich  reward  will  give ; 

Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Harriet  Winslow. 


676 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


LOSSES. 

Upon  the  white  sea-sand 
There  sat  a pilgrim  hand, 

Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known ; 
While  evening  waned  away 
From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 

And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary 
moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip, 

Of  a fair  freighted  ship, 

With  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone 
down; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe — 

For  a fair  face,  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a great  town. 

There  were  who  mourned  their  youth 
With  a most  loving  ruth, 

For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green ; 
And  one  upon  the  West 
Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest, 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joy  had  been. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honors  told, 

Some  spake  of  friends  that  were  their  trust 
no  more ; 

And  one  of  a green  grave 
Beside  a foreign  wave, 

That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 

There  spake  among  them  one, 

A stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free : 

“ Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet ; 

For  a believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me.” 

“Alas ! ” these  pilgrims  said, 

“ For  the  living  and  the  dead — 

For  fortune’s  cruelty,  for  love’s  sure  cross, 
For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea ! 

But,  however  it  came  to  thee, 

Thine,  stranger,  is  life’s  last  and  heaviest 
loss.” 

Fbances  Bbown. 


THE  GOOD  GREAT  MAH. 

How  seldom,  friend,  a good  great  man  inherits 
Honor  and  wealth,  with  all  his  worth  and 
pains! 

It  seems  a story  from  the  world  of  spirits 

When  any  man  obtains  that  which  he  merits, 
Or  any  merits  that  which  he  obtains. 

For  shame,  my  friend!  renounce  this  idle 
strain ! 

What  wouldst  thou  have  a good  great  man 
obtain  ? 

Wealth,  title,  dignity,  a golden  chain, 

Or  heap  of  corses  which  his  sword  hath  slain  ? 

Goodness  and  greatness  are  not  means,  but 
ends. 

Hath  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 

The  good  great  man  ? Three  treasures — love, 
and  light, 

And  calm  thoughts,  equable  as  infant’s 
breath ; 

And  three  fast  friends,  more  sure  than  day  or 
night — • 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

Samvel  Taylob  Coleeidge. 


SOHNETS. 

ON  HIS  BEING  AKRIVED  TO  THE  AGE  OF 
TWENTY-THREE. 

How  soon  hath  Time,  the  subtle  thief  ot 
youth, 

Stolen  on  his  wing  my  three-and-twentieth 
year! 

My  hasting  days  fly  on  with  full  career, 

But  my  late  spring  no  bud  or  blossom 
showeth. 

Perhaps  my  semblance  might  deceive  the 
truth, 

That  I to  manhood  am  arrived  so  near ; 

And  inward  ripeness  doth  much  less  appear 

That  some  more  timely-happy  spirits  in 
du’th. 

Yet  be  it  less  or  more,  or  soon  or  slow, 

It  shall  be  still  in  strictest  measure  even 

To  that  same  lot,  however  mean  or  high, 


ROBIN  HOOD. 


Toward  which  Time  leads  me,  and  the  will 
of  Heaven : 

All  is,  if  I have  grace  to  use  it  so, 

As  ever  in  my  great  Task-master’s  eye. 


OX  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IX  PIEMOXT. 

Avexge,  O Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints, 
whose  bones 

Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains 
cold! 

Even  them  who  kept  thy  truth  so  pure  of 
old, 

When  all  our  fathers  worshipped  stocks 
and  stones, 

Eorget  not ! in  thy  hook  record  their  groans 

Wfco  were  thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient 
fold 

Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that 
rolled 

Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.  Their 
moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  Heaven.  Their  martyred  blood  and 
ashes  sow 

O’er  all  th’  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth 
sway 

The  triple  tyrant;  that  from  these  may 
grow 

A hundred  fold,  who,  having  learned  thy 
way, 

Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 


OX  HIS  BLIXDXESS. 

Whex  I consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and 
wide, 

And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to 
hide 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul 
more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  he  returning  chide — 
“ Doth  God  exact  day-labor,  light  de- 
nied ? ” 

I fondly  ask ; but  Patience,  to  prevent 


ell 

That  murmur,  soon  replies : “ God  doth  not 
need 

Either  man’s  work,  or  his  own  gifts ; who 
best 

Bear  his  mild  yoke,  they  serve  him  best ; 
his  state 

Is  kingly ; thousands  at  his  bidding  speed, 

And  post  o’er  land  and  ocean  without 
rest; 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 
wait.” 

John  Milton. 


ROBIN  HOOD. 

No ! those  days  are  gone  away, 

And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 
Of  the  leaves  of  many  years ; 

Many  times  have  Winter’s  shears, 
Frozen  North,  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest’s  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

No ! the  bugle  sounds  no  more, 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more, ; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill, 

Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill ; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh, 

Where  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear. 

On  the  fairest  time  of  June 
You  may  go,  with  sun  or  moon, 

Or  the  seven  stars,  to  light  you, 

Or  the  polar  ray  to  right  you ; 

But  you  never  may  behold 
Little  John,  or  Robin  bold — 

Never  one,  of  all  the  clan, 
Thrumming  on  an  empty  can 
Some  old  hunting  ditty,  while 
He  doth  his  green  way  beguile 
To  fair  hostess  Merriment, 

Down  beside  the  pasture  Trent ; 

For  he  left  the  merry  tale, 
Messenger  for  spicy  ale. 


678 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Gone  the  merry  morris  din ; 

Gone  the  song  of  Gamelvn ; 

Gone  the  tough-belted  outlaw, 

Idling  in  the  “ greene  shawe  ” — 

All  are  gone  away  and  past ! 

And  if  Robin  should  he  cast 
Sudden  from  his  tufted  grave, 

And  if  Marian  should  have 
Once  again  her  forest  days, 

She  would  weep,  and  he  would  craze ; 
He  would  swear — for  all  his  oaks, 
Fallen  beneath  the  dock-yard  strokes, 
Have  rotted  on  the  briny  seas ; 

She  would  weep  that  her  wild  bees 
Sang  not  to  her — strange ! that  honey 
Can ’t  be  got  without  hard  money ! 

So  it  is ! yet  let  us  sing 
Honor  to  the  old  bow-string ! 

Honor  to  the  bugle  horn ! 

Honor  to  the  woods  unshorn ! 

Honor  to  the  Lincoln  green ! 

Honor  to  the  archer  keen ! 

Honor  to  tight  Little  John, 

And  the  horse  he  rode  upon ! 

Honor  to  bold  Robin  Hood, 

Sleeping  in  the  underwood ! 

Honor  to  Maid  Marian, 

And  to  all  the  Sherwood  clan ! 

Though  their  days  have  hurried  by, 
Let  us  two  a burden  try. 

John  Keats. 


O!  THE  PLEASANT  DAYS  OF  OLD! 

0 ! the  pleasant  days  of  old,  which  so  often 
people  praise ! 

True,  they  wanted  all  the  luxuries  that  grace 
our  modern  days : 

Bare  floors  were  strewed  with  rushes — the 
walls  let  in  the  cold ; 

0 ! how  they  must  have  shivered  in  those 
pleasant  days  of  old ! 

0 ! those  ancient  lords  of  old,  how  magnifi- 
cent they  were ! 

They  threw  down  and  imprisoned  kings — to 
thwart  them  who  might  dare  ? 


They  ruled  their  serfs  right  sternly;  the} 
took  from  Jews  their  gold — 

Above  both  law  and  equity  were  those  great 
lords  of  old  1 

0 ! the  gallant  knights  of  old,  for  their  valoi 
so  renowned ! 

With  sword  and  lance,  and  armor  strong,  they 
scoured  the  country  round ; 

And  whenever  aught  to  tempt  them  they  met 
by  wood  or  wold, 

By  right  of  sword  they  seized  the  prize — 
those  gallant  knights  of  old ! 

0 ! the  gentle  dames  of  old ! who,  quite  free 
from  fear  or  pain, 

Could  gaze  on  joust  and  tournament,  and  see 
their  champions  slain ; 

They  lived  on  good  beefsteaks  and  ale,  which 
made  them  strong  and  bold — 

0 ! more  like  men  than  women  were  those 
gentle  dames  of  old ! 

0 ! those  mighty  towers  of  old ! with  their 
turrets,  moat  and  keep, 

Their  battlements  and  bastions,  their  dun- 
geons dark  and  deep. 

Full  many  a baron  held  his  court  within  the 
castle  hold ; 

And  many  a captive  languished  there,  in 
those  strong  towers  of  old. 

0 ! the  troubadours  of  old ! with  their  gentle 
minstrelsie 

Of  hope  and  joy,  or  deep  despair,  whiche’er 
their  lot  might  be — 

For  years  they  served  their  ladye-love  ere 
they  their  passion  told — 

0 ! wondrous  patience  must  have  had  those 
troubadours  of  old ! 

0!  those  blessed  times  of  old!  with  their 
chivalry  and  state ; 

I love  to  read  their  chronicles,  which  suck 
brave  deeds  relate ; 

I love  to  sing  their  ancient  rhymes,  to  hear 
their  legends  told — 

But,  Heaven  be  thanked ! I live  not  in  those 
blessed  times  of  old ! 

Frances  Brown. 


THE  WHITE  ISLAND.  679 

There  followed  close  a hideous  throng 

THE  POOR  MAN’S  SONG. 

Of  pert  and  pensioned  things— 

Muck- worms,  for  whom  our  sweat  and  blood 

CHATJNT  FIRST. 

Must  furnish  gilded  wings. 

I ’ll  sing  a song,  and  such  a song 

I will  not  tell  you  what  I thought, 

As  men  will  weep  to  hear — 

A sorrowing  song,  of  right  and  wrong — 

Nor  for  my  burning  looks 

So,  brethren,  lend  an  ear ! 

Find  words — but  they  were  bitterer  far 
Than  aught  that ’s  writ  in  books. 

God  said  to  man : “ This  pleasant  land, 

I make  it  wholly  thine ; ” 

I ’ll  set  my  right  foot  to  a stone, 

I look,  and  say— on  this  sad  day 

And  ’gainst  a rock  my  back — 

There ’s  not  one  furrow  mine. 

Stretch  thus  my  arm,  and  sternly  say, 
“ Give  me  my  birthright  back ! ” 

God  said  to  man : “ Increase,  enjoy, 
Build,  till,  and  sow  your  seed ! ” 

But  through  the  land  the  Lord  gave  me 
My  children  beg  their  bread. 

Anonymous. 

THE  WHITE  ISLAND; 

The  North  belongs  unto  the  Crown, 

The  South  to  the  divine ; 

OR,  PLACE  OF  THE  BLEST. 

And  East  and  West  Wealth  holds  her  hands, 

In  this  world,  the  Isle  of  Dreams, 

And  says  “the  rest  is  mine.” 

While  we  sit  by  sorrow’s  streams, 
Tears  and  terrors  are  our  themes, 

God  said  to  man : “All  winged  fowl, 

Reciting ; 

The  finned  fish  of  the  flood, 

But  when  once  from  hence  we  Hie, 

The  heathcock  on  his  desert  hills, 

More  and  more  approaching  nigh 

The  wild  deer  of  the  wood — 

Unto  young  eternitie, 
Uniting 

“Take  them  and  live!” — The  strong  man 

In  that  whiter  Island,  where 

came, 

Things  are  evermore  sincere — 

As  came  the  fiend  of  yore 

Candor  here  and  lustre  there 

To  Paradise — put  forth  his  hand — 

Delighting. 

And  they  are  mine  no  more. 

There  no  monstrous  fancies  shall 
Out  of  hell  an  horror  call, 

I saw  the  rulers  of  the  land, 

To  create,  or  cause  at  all, 

In  chariots  bright  with  gold, 

Affrighting ; 

Roll  on — I gazed,  my  babes  and  I, 

There  in  calm  and  cooling  sleep 

In  hunger  and  in  cold. 

We  our  eyes  shall  never  steep, 
But  eternal  watch  shall  keep, 

I saw  a prelate,  sleek  and  proud, 

Attending 

Drawn  by  four  chargers,  pass ; 

Pleasures,  such  as  shall  pursue 

How  much  he  seemed  like  Jesus  meek 

Me  immortalized,  and  you — 

When  he  rode  on  an  ass ! 

And  fresh  joys,  as  never  to 
Have  ending. 

A trinket  of  a lord  swept  by, 

With  all  his  rich  array, 

And  waved  me  off,  my  babes  and  I, 
As  things  of  coarser  clay. 

Robert  Herriok. 

680 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  HAPPY  VALLEY. 

i. 

r was  a valley  filled  with  sweetest  sounds ; 

A languid  music  haunted  every  where — 

Like  that  with  which  a summer  eve  abounds, 

From  rustling  corn,  and  song-birds  calling 
clear 

j Down  sloping  uplands,  which  some  wood  sur- 
rounds, 

With  tinkling  rills  just  heard,  but  not  too 
near; 

l And  low  of  cattle  on  the  distant  plain, 

And  peal  of  far-off  bells — now  caught,  then 
lost  again. 

n. 

It  seemed  like  Eden’s  angel-peopled  vale, 

So  bright  the  sky,  so  soft  the  streams  did 
flow; 

Such  tones  came  riding  on  the  musk- winged 
gale 

The  very  air  seemed  sleepily  to  blow ; 

And  choicest  flowers  enamelled  every  dale, 

Flushed  with  the  richest  sunlight’s  rosy 
glow: 

; It  was  a valley  drowsy  with  delight — 

i Such  fragrance  floated  round,  such  beauty 
dimmed  the  sight. 

m. 

The  golden-belted  bees  hummed  in  the  air ; 

The  tall  silk  grasses  bent  and  waved  along ; 

The  trees  slept  in  the  steeping  sunbeam’s 
glare; 

The  dreamy  river  chimed  its  undersong, 

And  took  its  own  free  course  without  a care ; 

Amid  the  boughs  did  lute-tongued  song- 
sters throng, 

And  the  green  valley  throbbed  beneath  their 
lays, 

While  echo  echo  chased  through  many  a 
leafy  maze. 

IV. 

And  shapes  were  there,  like  spirits  of  the 
flowers, 

Sent  down  to  see  the  summer  beauties 
dress, 


And  feed  their  fragrant  mouths  with  silver 
showers ; 

Their  eyes  peeped  out  from  many  a green 
recess, 

And  their  fair  forms  made  light  the  thick-set 
bowers ; 

The  very  flowers  seemed  eager  to  caress 

Such  living  sisters;  and  the  boughs,  long- 
leaved, 

Clustered  to  catch  the  sighs  their  pearl-flushed 
bosoms  heaved. 

! 

One  through  her  long  loose  hair  was  backward 
peeping, 

Or  throwing,  with  raised  arm,  the  locks 
aside; 

Another  high  a pile  of  flowers  was  heaping, 

Or  looking  love-askance,  and,  when  de- 
scried, 

Her  coy  glance  on  the  bedded  greensward 
keeping ; 

She  pulled  the  flowers  to  pieces  as  she 
sighed — 

Then  blushed,  like  timid  daybreak,  when  the 
dawn 

Looks  crimson  on  the  night,  and  then  again ’s 
withdrawn. 

VI. 

One,  with  her  warm  and  milk-white  arms 
outspread, 

On  tip-toe  tripped  along  a sun-lit  glade — 

Half  turned  the  matchless  sculpture  of  her 
head, 

And  half  shook  down  her  silken  circling 
braid. 

She  seemed  to  float  on  air,  so  light  she  sped ; 

Her  back-blown  scarf  an  arched  rainbow 
made ; 

She  skimmed  the  wavy  flowers,  as  she  passed 

by, 

With  fair  and  printless  feet,  like  clouds  along 
the  sky. 

vn. 

One  sat  alone  within  a shady  nook, 

With  wild- wood  songs  the  lazy  hours  be 
guiling ; 

Or  looking  at  her  shadow  in  the  brook, 


ARRANMORE.  681 

Trying  to  frown — then  at  the  effort  smil- 

Others  went  trooping  through  the  wooded 

ing; 

alleys, 

Her  laughing  eyes  mocked  every  serious  look ; 

Their  kirtles  glancing  white,  like  streams  in 

’T  was  as  if  Love  stood  at  himself  reviling. 

sunny  valleys. 

She  threw  in  flowers,  and  watched  them  float 

XI. 

away; 

Then  at  her  beauty  looked,  then  sang  a 

They  were  such  forms  as,  imaged  in  the 

sweeter  lay. 

night, 

Sail  in  our  dreams  across  the  heaven’s  steep 
blue, 

VIII. 

When  the  closed  lid  sees  visions  streaming 

Others  on  beds  of  roses  lay  reclined, 

bright, 

The  regal  flowers  athwart  their  full  lips 

Too  beautiful  to  meet  the  naked  view — 

thrown, 

Like  faces  formed  in  clouds  of  silver  light. 

And  in  one  fragrance  both  their  sweets  com- 

Women  they  were!  such  as  the  angels 

bined, 

knew — 

As  if  they  on  the  self-same  stem  had 

Such  as  the  mammoth  looked  on  ere  he  fled, 

grown — 

Scared  by  the  lovers’  wings  that  streamed  in 

So  close  were  rose  and  lip  together  twined, 

sunset  red. 

A double  flower  that  from  one  bud  had 

Thomas  Miller. 

blown ; 

Till  none  could  tell,  so  sweetly  were  they 
blended, 

Where  swelled  the  curving  lip,  or  where  the 

ARRANMORE. 

rose-bloom  ended. 

IX. 

0 ! Arranmore,  loved  Arranmore, 
How  oft  I dream  of  thee ! 

And  of  those  days  when  by  thy  shore 

One,  half  asleep,  crushing  the  twined  flowers, 

I wandered  young  and  free. 

Upon  a velvet  slope  like  Dian  lay — 

Full  many  a path  I ’ve  tried  since  then, 

Still  as  a lark  that  ’mid  the  daisies  cowers ; 

Through  pleasure’s  flowery  maze, 

Her  looped-up  tunic,  tossed  in  disarray, 

But  ne’er  could  find  the  bliss  again 

Showed  rounded  limbs  too  fair  for  earthly 

I felt  in  those  sweet  days. 

bowers ; 

They  looked  like  roses  on  a cloudy  day, 

How  blithe  upon  the  breezy  cliffs 

The  warm  white  dulled  amid  the  colder 

At  sunny  morn  I ’ve  stood, 

green — 

With  heart  as  bounding  as  the  skiffs 

The  flowers  too  rough  a couch  that  lovely 

That  danced  along  the  flood ! 

shape  to  screen. 

Or  when  the  western  wave  grew  bright 
With  daylight’s  parting  wing, 

X. 

Have  sought  that  Eden  in  its  light 

Some  lay  like  Thetis’  nymphs  along  the 

Which  dreaming  poets  sing — 

shore, 

That  Eden  where  th’  immortal  brave 

With  oceaD-pearl  combing  their  golden 

Dwell  in  a land  serene — 

locks, 

Whose  bowers  beyond  the  shining  wave, 

And  singing  to  the  waves  for  evermore — 

At  sunset,  oft  are  seen ; 

Sinking,  like  flowers  at  eve,  beside  the 

Ah,  dream,  too  full  of  saddening  truth ! 

rocks, 

Those  mansions  o’er  the  main 

If  but  a sound  above  the  muffled  roar 

Are  like  the  hopes  I built  in  youth — 

Of  the  low  waves  was  heard.  In  little 

As  sunny  and  as  vain ! 

flocks 

Thomas  Moore. 

682 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


SUNRISE  COMES  TO-MORROW. 

Teue  it  is  that  clouds  and  mist 
Blot  the  clear,  blue  weather ; 

True  that  lips  that  once  have  kissed 
Come  no  more  together. 

True  that  when  we  would  do  good 
Evil  often  follows ; 

True  that  green  leaves  quit  the  wood, 
Summers  lose  their  swallows. 

True  that  we  must  live  alone, 

Dwell  with  pale  dejections ; 

True  that  we  must  often  moan 
Over  crushed  affections. 

True  that  man  his  queen  awaits — 
True  that,  sad  and  lonely, 

Woman  through  her  prison-gates 
Sees  her  tyrant  only. 

True  the  rich  despise  the  poor, 

And  the  poor  desire 

Food  still  from  the  rich  man’s  door, 
Fuel  from  his  fire. 

True  that,  in  this  age  of  ours, 

There  are  none  to  guide  us — 

Gone  the  grand  primeval  powers ! 
Selfish  aims  divide  us : 

True  the  plaint.  But,  if  more  true, 

I would  not  deplore  it ; 

If  an  Eden  fade  from  view, 

Time  may  yet  restore  it. 

Evil  comes  and  evil  goes, 

But  it  moves  me  never ; 

For  the  good,  the  good,  it  grows, 
Buds  and  blossoms  ever. 

Winter  still  succeeds  to  Spring, 

But  fresh  Springs  are  coming ; 

Other  birds  are  on  the  wing, 

Other  bees  are  humming. 


I have  loved  with  right  good  will, 
Mourned  my  hopes  departed, 
Dreamed  my  golden  dream — and  still 
Am  not  broken-hearted. 

Problems  are  there  hard  to  solve, 

And  the  weak  may  try  them — 

May  review  them  and  revolve, 

While  the  strong  pass  by  them. 

Sages  prove  that  God  is  not ; 

But  I still  adore  him, 

See  the  shadow  in  each  spot 
That  he  casts  before  him. 

What  if  cherished  creeds  must  fade, 
Faith  will  never  leave  us ; 

God  preserves  what  God  has  made, 

Nor  can  Truth  deceive  us. 

Let  in  light,  the  holy  light ! 

Brothers,  fear  it  never ; 

Darkness  smiles,  and  wrong  grows  right 
Let  in  light  for  ever ! 

Let  in  light ! When  this  shall  be 
Safe  and  pleasant  duty, 

Men  in  common  things  shall  see 
Goodness,  truth,  and  beauty ; 

And,  as  noble  Plato  sings — 

Hear  it,  lords  and  ladies ! — 

We  shall  love  and  praise  the  things 
That  are  down  in  Hades. 

Glad  am  I,  and  glad  will  be ; 

For  my  heart  rejoices 
When  sweet  looks  and  lips  I see, 

When  I hear  sweet  voices. 

I will  hope,  and  work,  and  love, 

Singing  to  the  hours, 

While  the  stars  are  bright  above, 

And  below,  the  flowers — 

Apple-blossoms  on  the  trees, 

Gold-cups  in  the  meadows, 

Branches  waving  in  the  breeze, 

On  the  grass  their  shadows — 


HONEST  POVERTY. 


683 


Blackbirds  whistling  in  the  wood, 
Cuckoos  shouting  o’er  us, 

Clouds,  with  white  or  crimson  hood, 
Pacing  right  before  us : 

Who,  in  such  a world  as  this, 

Could  not  heal  his  sorrow  ? 

Welcome  this  sweet  sunset  bliss — 
Sunrise  comes  to  morrow. 

Anonymous. 


“CONTEMPLATE  ALL  THIS  WORK.” 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time, 

The  giant  laboring  in  his  youth ; 

Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth 
As  dying  Nature’s  earth  and  lime ; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.  They  say 
The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 

In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming  random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man — 

Who  throve  and  branched  from  clime  to  clime, 
The  herald  of  a higher  race, 

And  of  himself  in  higher  place, 

If  so  he  types  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more ; 

And  crowned  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 
That  life  is  not  an  idle  ore, 

But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 

And  dipped  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 
And  battered  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.  Arise  and  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ! 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 
And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die ! 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


HONEST  POVERTY. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 
Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a’  that  ? 

The  coward-slave,  we  pass  him  by ; 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a’  that ; 

The  rank  is  but  the  guinea’s  stamp — 
The  man ’s  the  gowd  for  a’  that. 

What  tho’  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  grey,  and  a’  that; 

Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine — 
A man ’s  a man  for  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a’  that ; 

The  honest  man,  though  e’er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o’  men  for  a’  that. 

You  see  yon  birkie  ca ’d  a lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a’  that— 

Tho’  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He ’s  but  a coof  for  a’  that ; 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a’  that ; 

The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a’  that. 

A prince  can  mak  a belted  knight, 

A marquis,  duke,  and  a’  that ; 

But  an  honest  man’s  aboon  his  might- 
Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa’  that ! 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a’  that ; 

The  pith  o’  sense,  and  pride  o’  worth. 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a’  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a’  that, 

That  sense  and  worth,  o’er  a’  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a’  that. 

For  a’  that,  and  a’  that, 

It’s  coming  yet,  for  a’  that — 

When  man  to  man,  the  warld  o’er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a’  that. 

Robert  Burns. 


684 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  GOOD  TIME  COMING. 

Theke ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 

But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 
Of  the  good  time  coming. 

Cannon  balls  may  aid  the  truth, 

But  thought ’s  a weapon  stronger  • 

We  ’ll  win  our  battle  by  its  aid ; — 

Wait  a little  longer. 

There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A- good  time  coming: 

The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword ; 

And  Right,  not  Might,  shall  be  the  lord 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Worth,  not  Birth,  shall  rule  mankind, 
And  be  acknowledged  stronger ; 

The  proper  impulse  has  been  given ; — 
Wait  a little  longer . 

There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

War  in  all  men ’s  eyes  shall  be 
A monster  of  iniquity 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then, 

To  prove  which  is  the  stronger ; 

Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory ’s  sake ; — 
Wait  a little  longer. 

There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 

And  flourish  all  the  stronger ; 

And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp ; — 
Wait  a little  longer. 

There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

And  a poor  man ’s  family 
Shall  not  be  his  misery 
In  the  good  time  coming. 

Every  child  shall  be  a help 
To  make  his  right  arm  stronger  ; 

The  happier  he  the  more  he  has ; — 

Wait  a little  longer. 


There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

Little  children  shall  not  toil 
Under,  or  above,  the  soil 
In  the  good  time  coming ; 

But  shall  play  in  healthful  fields 
Till  limbs  and  mind  grow  stronger ; 
And  every  one  shall  read  and  write ; — 
Wait  a little  longer. 

There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

The  people  shall  be  temperate, 

And  shall  love  instead  of  hate, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse, 

And  make  all  virtue  stronger. 

The  reformation  has  begun ; — 

Wait  a little  longer. 

There ’s  a good  time  coming,  boys, 

A good  time  coming : 

Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can, 

Every  woman,  every  man, 

The  good  time  coming. 

Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given, 

Make  the  impulse  stronger ; 

’T  will  be  strong  enough  one  day ; — 

Wait  a little  longer. 

Chasles  Mackay. 


IS  IT  COME? 

Is  it  come?  they  said,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Nile, 

Who  looked  for  the  world ’s  long-promised 
day, 

And  saw  but  the  strife  of  Egypt’s  toil, 

With  the  desert’s  sand  and  the  granite  gray. 
From  the  pyramid,  temple,  and  treasured 
dead, 

We  vainly  ask  for  her  wisdom’s  plan ; 
They  tell  us  of  the  tyrant’s  dread — 

Yet  there  was  hope  when  that  day  begun. 

The  Chaldee  came,  with  his  starry  lore, 

And  built  up  Babylon’s  crown  and  creed: 
And  bricks  were  stamped  on  the  Tigris  shore 
With  signs  which  our  sages  scarce  can  read. 


IF  THAT  WERE  TRUE! 


685 


From  Mims’  Temple,  and  Mmrod’s  Tower, 
The  rule  of  the  old  East’s  empire  spread 
Unreasoning  faith  and  unquestioned  power — 
But  still,  Is  it  come  ? the  watcher  said. 

The  light  of  the  Persian’s  worshipped  flame, 
The  ancient  bondage  its  splendor  threw ; 
And  once,  on  the  West  a sunrise  came, 

When  Greece  to  her  Freedom’s  trust  was 
true; 

With  dreams  to  the  utmost  ages  dear, 

With  human  gods,  and  with  god-like  men, 
No  marvel  the  far-off  day  seemed  near, 

To  eyes  that  looked  through  her  laurels 
then. 

The  Romans  conquered,  and  revelled  too, 

Till  honor,  and  faith,  and  power,  were 
gone; 

And  deeper  old  Europe’s  darkness  grew, 

As,  wave  after  wave,  the  Goth  came  on. 
The  gown  was  learning,  the  sword  was 
law; 

The  people  served  in  the  oxen’s  stead ; 

But  ever  some  gleam  the  watcher  saw, 

And  evermore,  Is  it  come  ? they  said. 

Poet  and  seer  that  question  caught, 

Above  the  din  of  life’s  fears  and  frets ; 

It  marched  with  letters,  it  toiled  with  thought, 
Through  schools  and  creeds  which  the 
earth  forgets. 

And  statesmen  trifle,  and  priests  deceive, 

And  traders  barter  our  world  away — 

Yet  hearts  to  that  golden  promise  cleave, 

A.nd  still,  at  times,  Is  it  come  ? tfrey  say. 

The  days  of  the  nations  bear  no  trace 
Of  all  the  sunshine  so  far  foretold ; 

The  cannon  speaks  in  the  teacher’s  place — 
The  age  is  weary  with  work  and  gold, 

And  high  hopes  wither,  and  memories  wane ; 

On  hearths  and  altars  the  fires  are  dead ; 
But  that  brave  faith  hath  not  lived  in  vain — 
And  this  is  all  that  our  watcher  said. 

Fbances  Bbown. 


IF  THAT  WERE  TRUE! 

’T  is  long  ago, — we  have  toiled  and  traded, 
Have  lost  and  fretted,  have  gained  and  grieved, 
Since  last  the  light  of  that  fond  faith  faded ; 
But,  friends — in  its  day — what  we  believed ! 
The  poets’  dreams  and  the  peasants’  stories — 
O,  never  will  time  that  trust  renew ! 

Yet  they  were  old  on  the  earth  before  us, 
And  lovely  tales, — had  they  been  true ! 

Some  spake  of  homes  in  the  greenwood  hid- 
den, 

Where  age  was  fearless  and  youth  was  free — 
Where  none  at  life’s  board  seemed  guests 
unbidden, 

But  men  had  years  like  the  forest  tree : 
Goodly  and  fair  and  full  of  summer, 

As  lives  went  by  when  the  world  was  new, 
Ere  ever  the  angel  steps  passed  from  her, — 
0,  dreamers  and  bards,  if  that  were  true ! 

Some  told  us  of  a stainless  standard — 

Of  hearts  that  only  in  death  grew  cold, 
Whose  march  was  ever  in  freedom’s  van- 
guard, 

And  not  to  be  stayed  by  steel  or  gold. 

The  world  to  their  very  graves  was  debtor — 
The  tears  of  her  love  fell  there  like  dew ; 

But  there  had  been  neither  slave  nor  fetter 
This  day  in  her  realms,  had  that  been  true  ! 

Our  hope  grew  strong  as  the  giant-slayer. 
They  told  that  life  was  an  honest  game, 
Where  fortune  favored  the  fairest  player, 

And  only  the  false  found  loss  and  blame — 
That  men  were  honored  for  gifts  and  graces, 
And  not  for  the  prizes  folly  drew ; 

But  there  would  be  many  a change  of  places, 
In  hovel  and  hall,  if  that  were  true ! 

Some  said  to  our  silent  souls,  What  fear  ye  ? 
And  talked  of  a love  not  based  on  clay — 

Of  faith  that  would  neither  wane  nor  weary, 
With  all  the  dust  of  the  pilgrim’s  day ; 

They  said  that  Fortune  and  Time  were  chang- 
ers, 

But  not  by  their  tides  such  friendship  grew ; 
O,  we  had  never  been  trustless  strangers 
Among  our  people,  if  that  were  true ! 


686 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


And  yet  since  the  fairy  time  hath  perished, 
With  all  its  freshness,  from  hills  and  hearts, 
The  last  of  its  love,  so  vainly  cherished, 

I3  not  for  these  days  of  schools  and  marts. 
TTp,  up ! for  the  heavens  still  circle  o’er  us ; 
There ’s  wealth  to  win  and  there ’s  work  to 
do, 

There ’s  a sky  above,  and  a grave  before  us — 
And,  brothers,  beyond  them  all  is  true ! 

Fbances  Bbown. 


THE  WORLD. 

’T  is  all  a great  show, 

The  world  that  we  ’re  in — 

Hone  can  tell  when ’t  was  finished, 
None  saw  it  begin ; 

Men  wander  and  gaze  through 
Its  courts  and  its  halls, 

Like  children  whose  love  is 
The  picture-hung  walls. 

There  are  flowers  in  the  meadow, 
There  are  clouds  in  the  sky — 
Songs  pour  from  the  woodland, 

The  waters  glide  by ; 

Too  many,  too  many 
For  eye  or  for  ear, 

The  sights  that  we  see, 

And  the  sounds  that  we  hear. 

A weight  as  of  slumber 
Comes  down  on  the  mind ; 

So  swift  is  life’s  train 
To  its  objects  we  ’re  blind ; 

I myself  am  hut  one 
In  the  fleet-gliding  show — 

Like  others  I walk, 

But  know  not  where  I go. 

One  saint  to  another 
I heard  say  “ How  long  ? ” 

I listened,  but  nought  more 
I heard  of  his  song ; 

The  shadows  are  walking 
Through  city  and  plain, — 

How  long  shall  the  night 
And  its  shadow  remain  ? 


How  long  ere  shall  shine, 

In  this  glimmer  of  things, 

The  Light  of  which  prophet 
In  prophecy  sings? 

And  the  gates  of  that  city 
Be  open,  whose  sun 
No  more  to  the  west 
Its  circuit  shall  run ! 

Jones  Ybbt. 


BE  PATIENT. 

Be  patient!  O,  he  patient!  Put  your  ear 
against  the  earth ; 

Listen  there  how  noiselessly  the  germ  o’  the 
seed  has  birth — 

How  noiselessly  and  gently  it.  upheaves  its 
little  way, 

Till  it  parts  the  scarcely  broken  ground,  and 
the  blade  stands  up  in  the  day. 

Be  patient!  O,  be  patient!  The  germs  of 
mighty  thought 

Must  have  their  silent  undergrowth,  must 
underground  be  wrought ; 

But  as  sure  as  there ’s  a power  that  makes 
the  grass  appear, 

Our  land  shall  be  green  with  liberty,  the 
blade-time  shall  be  here. 

Be  patient ! O,  be  patient ! — go  and  watch 
the  wheat-ears  grow — 

So  imperceptibly  that  ye  can  mark  nor  change 
nor  throe — 

Day  after  * day,  day  after  day,  till  the  ear  is 
fully  grown, 

And  then  again  day  after  day,  till  the  ripened 
field  is  brown. 

Be  patient ! 0,  be  patient ! — though  yet  our 
hopes  are  green, 

The  harvest-fields  of  freedom  shall  be 
crowned  with  sunny  sheen. 

Be  ripening ! be  ripening ! — mature  your  si- 
lent way, 

Till  the  whole  broad  land  is  tongued*  with 
fire  on  freedom’s  harvest  day ! 

Kichabd  Chenevix  T bench. 


EACH  AND  ALL. 


687 


THERE  BE  THOSE. 

There  be  those  who  sow  beside 
The  waters  that  in  silence  glide, 

Trusting  no  echo  will  declare 
Whose  footsteps  ever  wandered  there. 

The  noiseless  footsteps  pass  away, 

The  stream  flows  on  as  yesterday ; 

Nor  can  it  for  a time  be  seen 
A benefactor  there  had  been. 

Yet  think  not  that  the  seed  is  dead 
Which  in  the  lonely  place  is  spread ; 

It  lives,  it  lives — the  Spring  is  nigh, 

And  soon  its  life  shall  testify. 

That  silent  stream,  that  desert  ground, 

Ho  more  unlovely  shall  be  found ; 

But  scattered  flowers  of  simplest  grace 
Shall  spread  their  beauty  round  the  place. 

And  soon  or  late  a time  will  come 
When  witnesses,  that  now  are  dumb, 

With  grateful  eloquence  shall  tell 
From  whom  the  seed,  there  scattered,  fell. 

Bebnabd  Babton. 


EACH  AND  ALL. 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked 
clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse,  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine 
height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor’s  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one — 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 


I thought  the  sparrow’s  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 

I brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even. 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  pleases  not  now ; 
For  I did  not  bring  home  the  river  and 
sky: 

He  sang  to  my  ear — they  sang  to  my  eye. 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam — 

I fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 

But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  up- 
roar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 

As  ’mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed ; 

Nor  knew  her  beauty’s  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the 
cage; 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone — 

A gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I said,  “I  covet  truth; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood’s  cheat — 

I leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth.” 
As  I spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs ; 

I inhaled  the  violet’s  breath ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs ; 
Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 
Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I saw,  again  I heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird ; 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole — 

I yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emebson 


688 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  LOST  CHURCH. 

In  yonder  dim  and  pathless  wood 
Strange  sounds  are  heard  at  twilight  hour, 
And  peals  of  solemn  music  swell 
As  from  some  minster’s  lofty  tower. 

From  age  to  age  those  sounds  are  heard, 
Borne  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour — 
From  age  to  age  no  foot  hath  found 
A pathway  to  the  minster’s  tower ! 

Late,  wandering  in  that  ancient  wood, 

As  onward  through  the  gloom  I trod, 
From  all  the  woes  and  wrongs  of  earth 
My  soul  ascended  to  its  God. 

"When  lo ! in  the  hushed  wilderness 
I heard,  far  off,  that  solemn  hell : 

Still,  heavenward  as  my  spirit  soared, 

Wilder  and  sweeter  rang  the  knell. 

While  thus  in  holy  musings  wrapt, 

My  mind  from  outward  sense  withdrawn, 
Some  power  had  caught  me  from  the  earth, 
And  far  into  the  heavens  upborne. 
Methought  a hundred  years  had  passed 
In  mystic  visions  as  I lay — 

When  suddenly  the  parting  clouds 
Seemed  opening  wide,  and  far  away. 

Ho  midday  sun  its  glory  shed, 

The  stars  were  shrouded  from  my  sight ; 
And  lo ! majestic  o’er  my  head, 

A minster  shone  in  solemn  light. 

High  through  the  lurid  heavens  it  seemed 
Aloft  on  cloudy  wings  to  rise, 

Till  all  its  pointed  turrets  gleamed, 

Far  flaming,  through  the  vaulted  skies! 

The  hell  with  full  resounding  peal 
Rang  booming  through  the  rocking  tower; 
Ho  hand  had  stirred  its  iron  tongue, 

Slow  swaying  to  the  storm-wind’s  power. 
My  bosom  heating  like  a bark 
Dashed  by  the  surging  ocean’s  foam, 

I trod  with  faltering,  fearful  joy 
The  mazes  of  the  mighty  dome. 

A soft  light  through  the  oriel  streamed 
Like  summer  moonlight’s  golden  gloom, 
Far  through  the  dusky  arches  gleamed, 

And  filled  with  glory  all  the  room. 


Pale  sculptures  of  the  sainted  dead 
Seemed  waking  from  their  icy  thrall ; 

And  many  a glory-circled  head 
Smiled  sadly  from  the  storied  wall. 

Low  at  the  altar’s  foot  I knelt, 

Transfixed  with  awe,  and  dumb  with  dread; 
For,  blazoned  on  the  vaulted  roof, 

Were  heaven’s  fiercest  glories  spread. 

Yet  when  I raised  my  eyes  once  more, 

The  vaulted  roof  itself  was  gone — 

Wide  open  was  heaven’s  lofty  door, 

And  every  cloudy  veil  withdrawn ! 

What  visions  burst  upon  my  soul, 

What  joys  unutterable  there 
In  waves  on  waves  for  ever  roll 

Like  music  through  the  pulseless  air — 
These  never  mortal  tongue  may  tell : 

Let  him  who  fain  would  prove  their  power 
Pause  when  he  hears  that  solemn  knell 
Float  on  the  breeze  at  twilight  hour. 

Ludwig  TThland  (German). 
Paraphrase  of  Sabah  Helen  Whitman. 


THE  GARDEH  OF  LOYE. 

I went  to  the  Garden  of  Love, 

And  saw  what  I never  had  seen ; 

A chapel  was  built  in  the  midst, 

Where  I used  to  play  on  the  green. 

And  the  gate  of  this  chapel  was  shut, 

And  “ thou  shalt  not  ” writ  over  the  door ; 
So  I turned  to  the  Garden  of  Love, 

That  so  many  sweet  flowers  bore. 

And  I saw  it  was  filled  with  graves, 

And  tomb-stones  where  flowers  should  be ; 
And  priests  in  black  gowns  were  walking 
their  rounds, 

And  binding  with  briars  my  joys  and  de- 
sires. 

William  Blake 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


68S 


THE  PROBLEM. 

I like  a church ; I like  a cowl — 

I love  a prophet  of  the  soul ; 

And  on  my  heart  monastic  aisles 
Fall  like  sweet  strains,  or  pensive  smiles ; 
Yet  not  for  all  his  faith  can  see, 

Would  I that  cowled  churchman  be. 

Why  should  the  vest  on  him  allure 
Which  I could  not  on  me  endure  ? 

Hot  from  a vain  or  shallow  thought 
His  awful  Jove  young  Phidias  brought ; 
Never  from  lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle ; 

Out  from  the  heart  of  nature  rolled 
The  burdens  of  the  Bible  old ; 

The  litanies  of  nations  came, 

Like  the  volcano’s  tongue  of  flame, 

Up  from  the  burning  core  below — 

The  canticles  of  love  and  woe ; 

The  hand  that  rounded  Peter’s  dome, 

And  groined  the  aisles  of  Christian  Rome, 
Wrought  in  a sad  sincerity ; 

Himself  from  God  he  could  not  free ; 

He  builded  better  than  he  knew — 

The  conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew. 

Know’st  thou  what  wove  yon  woodbird’s 
nest 

Of  leaves,  and  feathers  from  her  breast  ? 
Or  how  the  fish  outbuilt  her  shell, 
Painting  with  morn  each  annual  cell  ? 

Or  how  the  sacred  pine-tree  adds 
To  her  old  leaves  new  myriads  ? 

Such  and  so  grew  these  holy  piles, 

Whilst  love  and  terror  laid  the  tiles. 

Earth  proudly  wears  the  Parthenon, 

As  the  best  gem  upon  her  zone ; 

And  Morning  opes  with  haste  her  lids 
To  gaze  upon  the  Pyramids ; 

O’er  England’s  abbeys  bends  the  sky, 

As  on  its  friends,  with  kindred  eye : 

For  out  of  Thought’s  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air ; 

And  nature  gladly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race, 

And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat. 

44 


These  temples  grew  as  grows  the  grass — 
Art  might  obey,  but  not  surpass. 

The  passive  master  lent  his  hand 
To  the  vast  soul  that  o’er  him  planned ; 
And  the  same  power  that  reared  the  shrine 
Bestrode  the  tribes  that  knelt  within. 

Ever  the  fiery  Pentecost 
Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host, 
Trances  the  heart  through  chanting  choirs, 
And  through  the  priest  the  mind  inspires. 
The  word  unto  the  prophet  spoken 
Was  writ  on  tables  yet  unbroken; 

The  word  by  seers  or  sibyls  told, 

In  groves  of  oak,  or  fanes  of  gold, 

Still  floats  upon  the  morning  wind, 

Still  whispers  to  the  willing  mind. 

One  accent  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
The  heedless  world  hath  never  lost. 

I know  what  say  the  fathers  wise — 

The  book  itself  before  me  lies — 

Old  Chrysostom,  best  Augustine, 

And  he  who  blent  both  in  his  line, 

The  younger  golden  lips  or  mines — 
Taylor,  the  Shakespeare  of  divines ; 

His  words  are  music  in  my  ear — 

I see  his  cowled  portrait  dear ; 

And  yet,  for  all  his  faith  could  see, 

I would  not  the  good  bishop  be. 

Kalph  Waldo  Emerson. 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Gray. 

My  loved,  my  honored,  much  - respected 
friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays ; 

With  honest  pride  I scorn  each  selfish  end, 

My  dearest  meed  a friend’s  esteem  and 
praise. 

To  you  I sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 

The  lowly  train  in  life’s  sequestered  scene ; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless 
ways — 

What  Aiken  in  a cottage  would  have  been ; 

Ah ! tho’  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier 
there,  I ween. 


690 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


November  chill  blaws  loud  wi’  angry  sugh ; 
The  short’ning  winter  day  is  near  a close  ; 

The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh, 
The  black’ning  trains  o’  craws  to  their  re- 
pose. 

The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labor  goes — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end — 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his 
hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend ; 
And  weary,  o’er  the  moor,  his  course  does 
hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view, 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree ; 

Th’  expectant  wee  things,  todlin,  stacher  thro’ 
To  meet  their  dad  wi’  flichterin  noise  and 
glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle  blinkin’  bonnilie, 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thriftie  wifie’s 
smile, 

The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 

Hoes  a’  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile, 
An’  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labor  and 
his  toil. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drappin’  in — 
At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun’ ; 

Some  ca’  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie 
rin 

A cannie  errand  to  a neebor  town. 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown, 
In  youthfu’  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her 
e’e, 

Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  shew  a braw  new 
gown, 

Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny  fee, 

To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hard- 
ship be. 

Wi’  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 
An’  each  for  other’s  weelfare  kindly  spiers ; 

The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed 
fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years — 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi’  her  needle  an’  her  sheers, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel ’s  the 
new ; 

The  father  mixes  a’  wi’  admonition  due : 


Their  masters’  and  their  mistresses’  com- 
mand 

The  younkers  a’  are  warned  to  obey, 

An’  mind  their  labours  wi’  an  eydent  hand, 
An’  ne’er,  tho’  out  o’  sight,  to  jauk  or  play ; 

An’  O ! be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway ! 

An’  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an’  night ! 

Lest  in  temptation’s  path  ye  gang  astray, 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the 
Lord  aright ! 

But  hark ! a rap  comes  gently  to  the  door ; 
Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o’  the  same, 

Tells  how  a neebor  lad  cam  o’er  the  moor 
To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 

The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny’s  e’e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 

Wi’  heart-struck,  anxious  care,  inquires  his 
name, 

While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears  it ’s  nae 
wild,  worthless  rake. 

Wi’  kindly  welcome,  J enny  brings  him  ben — 
A strappan  youth,  he  taks  the  mother’s 
eye; 

Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit’s  no  ill  ta’en; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 
kye; 

The  youngster’s  artless  heart  overflows  wi’ joy, 
But  blate  and  laithfu’,  scarce  can  weel  be- 
have; 

The  mother,  wi’  a woman’s  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu’  and  sae 
grave — 

Weel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn ’s  respected 
like  the  lave. 

O happy  love ! where  love  like  this  is  found ! 
O heart-felt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 

I ’ve  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

If  Heaven  a draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

’T  is  when  a youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 

In  other’s  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents 
the  evening  gale. 


THE  COTTER’S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


691 


Is  there,  in  human  form  that  bears  a heart, 

A wretch,  a villain,  lost  to  love  and  truth, 

That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art, 
Betray  sweet  Jenny’s  unsuspecting  youth? 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts!  dissembling 
smooth ! 

Are  honor,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o’er  then- 
child — 

Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  dis- 
traction wild  ? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple 
board : 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o’  Scotia’s 
food ; 

The  soup  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  ’yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her 
cud; 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood, 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck 
fell, 

An’  aft  he ’s  pressed,  and  aft  he  ca’s  it  good ; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How ’t  was  a towmond  auld,  sin’  lint  was 
i’  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu’  supper  done,  wi’  serious  face 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a circle  wide ; 

The  sire  turns  o’er,  wi’  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  Ha’-Bible,  ance  his  father’s  pride : 

His  bonnet  rev’rently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearin’  thin  and  bare ; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion 
glide 

He  wales  a portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  “Let  us  worship  God ! ” he  says  with 
solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 
They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest 
aim ; 

Perhaps  Dundee’s  wild,  warbling  measures 
rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  o’  the  name ; 

Or  noble  Elgin  beets  the  heavenward  flame — 
The  sweetest  far  o’  Scotia’s  holy  lays ; 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 


The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures 
raise — 

Hae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator’s 
praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page : 
How  Abraham  was  the  friend  of  God  on 
high; 

Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 
With  Amalek’s  ungracious  progeny ; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven’s  avenging 
ire ; 

Or  Job’s  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah’s  wild,  seraphic  fire ; 

Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred 
lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme : 
How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was 
shed ; 

How  He,  who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second 
name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head ; 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped — 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a 
land ; 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 

Saw  in  the  sun  a mighty  angel  stand, 

And  heard  great  Bab’lon’s  doom  pronounced 
by  Heaven’s  command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven’s  eternal  King, 
The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband 
prays : 

Hope  “ springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing  ” 
That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days ; 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 

Ho  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear — 

Together  hymning  their  Creator’s  praise, 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 

While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an 
eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  religion’s  pride, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 

When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 
Devotion’s  every  grace  except  the  heart ! 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 

But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 


692 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the 
soul, 

And  in  His  hook  of  life  the  inmates  poor 
enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev’ral  way ; 
The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest ; 

The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay, 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  re- 
quest 

That  He  who  stills  the  raven’s  clam’rous  nest, 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide — 
But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  di- 
vine preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia’s  grandeur 
springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered 
abroad. 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings — 
“An  honest  man’s  the  noblest  work  of 
God;” 

And,  certes,  in  fair  virtue’s  heavenly  road, 
The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 

What  is  a lordling’s  pomp  ? a cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  re- 
fined! 

O Scotia ! my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is 
sent ! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content ! 

And,  0 ! may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  pre- 
vent 

From  luxury’s  contagion  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe’er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while, 
And  stand  a wall  of  fire  around  their  much- 
loved isle. 

0 Thou ! who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 
That  streamed  through  Wallace’s  undaunted 
heart — 

Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 

Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part — 


(The  patriot’s  God  peculiarly  Thou  art — 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 
0 never,  never  Scotia’s  realm  desert ; 

But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament 
and  guard ! 

Robert  Burns. 


HALLOWED  GROUND. 

What ’s  hallowed  ground  ? Has  earth  a clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God 
Erect  and  free, 

Unscourged  by  Superstition’s  rod 
To  bow  the  knee  ? 

That ’s  hallowed  ground  where,  mourned  and 
missed, 

The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed: — 

But  where ’s  their  memory’s  mansion  ? Is ’t 
Yon  churchyard ’s  bowers  ? 

No ! in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A part  of  ours. 

A kiss  can  consecrate  the  ground 
Where  mated  hearts  are  mutual  bound ; 

The  spot  where  love’s  first  links  were  wound, 
That  ne’er  are  riven, 

Is  hallowed  down  to  earth’s  profound. 

And  up  to  Heaven ! 

For  time  makes  all  but  true  love  old ; 

The  burning  thoughts  that  then  were  told 
Run  molten  still  in  memory’s  mould ; 

And  will  not  cool 
Until  the  heart  itself  be  cold 
In  Lethe’s  pool. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 

’T  is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap ! — 

In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 
Their  turf  may  bloom, 

Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 
Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind— 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE. 


693 


And  is  he  dead  whose  glorious  mind 
Lifts  thine  on  high  ? — 

To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 
Is  not  to  die. 

Is ’t  death  to  fall  for  Freedom’s  right  ? 

He ’s  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 

And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven’s  sight 
The  sword  he  draws : — 

What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A noble  cause ! 

Give  that!  and  welcome  War  to  brace 
Her  drums,  and  rend  Heaven’s  reeking  space ! 
The  colors  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cheer, 

Though  Death ’s  pale  horse  lead  on  the  chase, 
Shall  still  be  dear. 

And  place  our  trophies  where  men  kneel 
To  Heaven! — But  Heaven  rebukes  my  zeal. 
The  cause  of  truth  and  human  weal, 

O God  above ! 

Transfer  it  from  the  sw.ord’s  appeal 
To  peace  and  love. 

Peace ! love ! — the  cherubim  that  join 
Their  spread  wings  o’er  devotion’s  shrine ! 
Prayers  sound  in  vain,  and  temples  shine, 
Where  they  are  not ; 

The  heart  alone  can  make  divine 
Eeligion’s  spot. 

To  incantations  dost  thou  trust, 

And  pompous  rites  in  domes  august  ? 

See  mouldering  stones  and  metal’s  rust 
Belie  the  vaunt, 

That  men  can  bless  one  pile  of  dust 
With  chime  or  chaunt. 

The  ticking  wood-worm  mocks  thee,  man ! 
Thy  temples — creeds  themselves  grow  wan ! 
But  there ’s  a dome  of  nobler  span, 

A temple  given 

Thy  faith,  that  bigots  dare  not  ban — 

Its  space  is  Heaven ! 

Its  roof  star-pictured  Nature’s  ceiling, 
Where,  trancing  the  rapt  spirit’s  feeling, 

And  God  himself  to  man  revealing, 

The  harmonious  spheres 
Made  music,  though  unheard  their  pealing 
By  mortal  ears. 


Fair  stars ! are  not  your  beings  pure? 

Can  siD,  can  death,  your  worlds  obscure  ? 

Else  why  so  swell  the  thoughts  at  your 
Aspect  above  ? 

Ye  must  be  Heavens  that  make  us  sure 
Of  heavenly  love ! 

And  in  your  harmony  sublime 

I read  the  doom  of  distant  time : 

That  man’s  regenerate  soul  from  crime 
Shall  yet  be  drawn, 

And  reason,  on  his  mortal  clime, 

Immortal  dawn. 

What’s  hallowed  ground?  ’Tis  what  gives 
birth 

To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth ! — 

Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go  forth, 
Earth’s  compass  round ; 

And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 
All  hallowed  ground ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another’s  will — 

Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 

And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death — 
Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath ! 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 
Or  vice ; who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend ; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a religious  book  or  friend : 


694 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall — 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 
And,  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton. 


MAN. 

My  God,  I heard  this  day 
That  none  doth  build  a stately  habitation 
But  he  that  means  to  dwell  therein. 

What  house  more  stately  hath  there  been, 
Or  can  be,  than  is  Man,  to  whose  creation 
All  things  are  in  decay  ? 

For  Man  is  every  thing, 

And  more : he  is  a tree,  yet  bears  no  fruit ; 

A beast,  yet  is,  or  should  be,  more — 
Reason  and  speech  we  only  bring. 

Parrots  may  thank  us,  if  they  are  not  mute — 
They  go  upon  the  score. 

Man  is  all  symmetric — 

Full  of  proportions,  one  limb  to  another, 

And  all  to  all  the  world  besides. 

Each  part  may  call  the  farthest  brother ; 
For  head  with  foot  hath  private  amitie, 

And  both  with  moons  and  tides. 

Nothing  hath  got  so  farre 
But  Man  hath  caught  and  kept  it  as  his  prey. 
His  eyes  dismount  the  highest  starre  ; 

He  is  in  little  all  the  sphere. 

Herbs  gladly  cure  our  flesh,  because  that  they 
Finde  their  acquaintance  there. 

For  us  the  winds  do  blow, 

The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  and  foun- 
tains flow. 

Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good, 

As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure ; 

The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The  starres  have  us  to  bed — 

Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sunne 
withdraws. 

Musick  and  light  attend  our  head ; 

All  things  unto  our  flesh  are  kinde 
In  their  descent  and  being — to  our  minde 
In  their  ascent  and  cause. 


Each  thing  is  full  of  dutie : 

Waters  united  are  our  navigation — 
Distinguished,  our  habitation ; 

Below,  our  drink — above,  our  meat ; 

Both  are  our  cleanlinesse.  Hath  one  sucli 
beautie  ? 

Then  how  are  all  things  neat ! 

More  servants  wait  on  Man 
Than  he  ’ll  take  notice  of.  In  every  path 
He  treads  down  that  which  doth  befriend 
him 

When  sicknesse  makes  him  pale  and  wan. 
0 mightie  love ! Man  is  one  world,  and  hath 
Another  to  attend  him. 

Since  then,  my  God,  Thou  hast 
So  brave  a palace  built,  O dwell  in  it, 

That  it  may  dwell  with  Thee  at  last! 

Till  then  afford  us  so  much  wit 
That,  as  the  world  serves  us,  we  may  serve 
Thee, 

And  both  Thy  servants  be. 

Georoe  Herbert. 


HEAVENLY  WISDOM. 

0 happy  is  the  man  who  hears 
Instruction’s  warning  voice, 

And  who  celestial  Wisdom  makes 
His  early,  only  choice ; 

For  she  has  treasures  greater  far 
Than  east  or  west  unfold, 

And  her  reward  is  more  secure 
Than  is  the  gain  of  gold. 

In  her  right  hand  she  holds  to  view 
A length  of  happy  years ; 

And  in  her  left  the  prize  of  fame 
And  honor  bright  appears. 

She  guides  the  young,  with  innocence, 
In  pleasure’s  path  to  tread ; 

A crown  of  glory  she  bestows 
Upon  the  hoary  head. 


ODE. 


695 


According  as  her  labors  rise, 

So  her  rewards  increase ; 

Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness, 
And  all  her  paths  are  peace. 

John  Logan. 


SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST. 

As  o’er  his  furrowed  fields,  which  lie 
Beneath  a coldly-dropping  sky, 

Yet  chill  with  Winter’s  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow : 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  hitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 

And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germ,  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  ? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field ; 

Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 

The  reaper’s  song  among  the  sheaves ; 

Yet  where  our  duty’s  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God’s  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 

And  whatsoe’er  is  willed  is  done ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes,  day  by  day,  the  recompense — 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  staid, 
The  fountain,  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 

Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

Our  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again ; 
And  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


ODE. 

INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  RECOL- 
LECTIONS OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 

I. 

There  was  a time  when  meadow,  grove,  and 
stream, 

The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light — 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a dream. 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore : 

Turn  wheresoe’er  I may, 

By  night  or  day, 

The  things  which  I have  seen,  I now  can  see 
no  more. 

ii. 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose ; 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  on  a starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 

The  sunshine  is  a glorious  birth  ; 

But  yet  I know,  where’er  I go, 

That  there  hath  passed  away  a glory  from 
the  earth. 

iii. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor’s  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a thought  of  grief ; 
A timely  utterance  gavo  that  thought  relief, 
And  I again  am  strong. 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the 
steep — 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong. 
I hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains 
throng ; 

The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep. 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity  ; 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday ; — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou 
happy  shepherd  boy ! 


J 


696 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


IV. 

Ye  blessed  creatures  ! I have  heard  the  call 
Ye  to  each  other  make ; I see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 

My  head  hath  its  coronal — 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I feel,  I feel  it  all. 

0 evil  day ! if  I were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 

And.  the  children  are  culling 
On  every  side, 

In  a thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers;  while  the  sun  shines 
warm, 

And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother’s  arm — 

1 hear,  I hear,  with  joy  I hear ! 

— But  there ’s  a tree,  of  many  one, 

A single  field  which  I have  looked  upon — 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone ; 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 

Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream? 

v. 

Our  birth  is  but  a sleep  and  a forgetting ; 

The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life’s  star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 

And  cometh  from  afar. 

Hot  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 

But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home. 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growing  boy ; 

But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it 
flows — 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy. 

The  youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  nature’s  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended ; 

At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

VI. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own. 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind; 
And,  even  with  something  of  a mother’s  mind, 


And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

VII. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses — 
A six  years’  darling  of  a pigmy  size  ! 

See,  where  ’mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother’s  kisses, 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father’s  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art — 
A wedding  or  a festival, 

A mourning  or  a funeral — 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song. 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part — 

Filling  from  time  to  time  his  “humorous 
stage  ” 

With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

vin. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 
Thy  soul’s  immensity ! 

Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage ! thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read’st  the  eternal  deep 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind ! — 
Mighty  prophet ! Seer  blest, 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 

In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ! 
Thou  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a master  o’er  a slave, 

! A presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ! 

| Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
j Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being’s  height, 
I Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  pro- 
voke 

The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 


ODE. 


69? 


Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly 
freight, 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

IX. 

O joy ! that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth 
breed 

Perpetual  benediction : not,  indeed, 

For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest — 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 

With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his 
breast — 

Hot  for  these  I raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise ; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 

Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 

Blank  misgivings  of  a creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 

High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a guilty  thing  surprised — 
But  for  those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day, 

Are  yet  a master  light  of  all  our  seeing, 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to 
make 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence : truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never — 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 
Nor  man  nor  boy, 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 

Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  ns  hither — 

Can  in  a moment  travel  thither, 

And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  ever- 


x. 

Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a joyous  song ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor’s  sound ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  sc 
bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the 
hour 

Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the 
flower — 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind : 

In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

XI. 

And  O ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and 
groves, 

Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I feel  your  might ; 
I only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels 
fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I tripped  lightly  as 
they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a new-born  day 
Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o’er  man’s  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are 
won. 

Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears — 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can 
give 

Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 


more. 


698 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 
And  sinking  silently, 

All  silently,  the  little  moon 
Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven, 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star  of  love  and  dreams? 

O no ! from  that  blue  tent  above 
A hero’s  armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 
When  I behold  afar, 

Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 

0 star  of  strength ! I see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light, 

But  the  cold  light  of  stars : 

1 give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 

Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe’er  thou  art, 
That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 

As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm ! 

O fear  not  in  a world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 

Know  how  sublime  a thing  it  is 
To  suffer  and  be  strong. 

Henby  Wadswobtii  Longfellow. 


NIGHT. 

When  I survey  the  bright 
Celestial  sphere, 

So  rich  with  jewels  hung  that  Night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear, 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 

And  heavenward  flies, 

The  Almighty’s  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volume  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 
Shoots  forth  no  flame 

So  silent  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  the  Creator’s  name ; 

No  unregarded  star 
Contracts  its  light 

Into  so  small  character, 

Removed  far  from  our  human  sight 

But  if  we  steadfast  look, 

We  shall  discern 

In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 

How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge 
learn. 

It  tells  the  conqueror 

That  far-stretched  power, 

Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 

Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour — 

That  from  the  farthest  north 
Some  nation  may, 

Yet  undiscovered,  issue  forth, 

And  o’er  his  new-got  conquest  sway 

Some  nation,  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice, 

May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 

Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  they  likewise  shall 
Their  ruin  have ; 

For  as  yourselves  your  empires  fall, 
And  every  kingdom  hath  a grave. 


J 


DEATH’S  FINAL  CONQUEST. 


699 


There  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 

The  fallacy  of  our  desires 

And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute. 

For  they  have  watched  since  first 
The  world  had  birth, 

And  found  sin  in  itself  accurst, 

And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 

William  Habington. 


THE  STURDY  ROOK,  FOR  ALL  HIS 
STRENGTH. 

The  sturdy  rock,  for  all  his  strength, 

By  raging  seas  is  rent  in  twain ; 

The  marble  stone  is  pierced  at  length 
With  little  drops  of  drizzling  rain ; 

The  ox  doth  yield  unto  the  yoke ; 

The  steel  obey’th  the  hammer  stroke ; 

The  stately  stag,  that  seems  so  stout, 

By  yelping  hounds  at  bay  is  set ; 

The  swiftest  bird  that  flies  about 
Is  caught  at  length  in  fowler’s  net ; 

The  greatest  fish  in  deepest  brook 

Is  soon  deceived  with  subtle  hook ; 

Yea!  man  himself,  unto  whose  will 
All  things  are  bounden  to  obey, 

For  all  his  wit  and  worthy  skill 
Doth  fade  at  length,  and  fall  away : 

There  is  no  thing  but  time  doth  waste — 

The  heavens,  the  earth  consume  at  last. 

But  Virtue  sits  triumphing  still 
Upon  the  throne  of  glorious  Fame ; 

Though  spiteful  Death  man’s  body  kill, 
Yet  hurts  he  not  his  virtuous  name. 

By  life  or  death,  whatso  betides, 

The  state  of  Virtue  never  slides. 

Anonymous. 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ! 

The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 

For  thou  must  die. 


Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye ! 

Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave — 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ! 

My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 

And  all  must  die. 

Only  a sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives ; 

But,  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

Geoege  Heebeet. 


DEATH’S  FINAL  CONQUEST. 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 
Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  Fate — 

Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 

And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 

With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield — 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 

Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  Fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow — 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death’s  purple  altar,  now, 

See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds ! 

All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb — 

Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

James  Shibley. 


700 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


THE  HERMIT. 

At  the  close  of  the  day,  when  the  hamlet  is 
still, 

| And  mortals  the  sweets  of  forgetfulness 
prove, 

I When  nought  hut  the  torrent  is  heard  on  the 
hill, 

! And  nought  hut  the  nightingale’s  song  in  the 
grove, 

’T  was  thus,  by  the  cave  of  the  mountain  afar, 

' While  his  harp  rung  symphonious,  a hermit 
began ; 

No  more  with  himself  or  with  nature  at  war, 

He  thought  as  a sage,  though  he  felt  as  a man : 

“Ah!  why,  all  abandoned  to  darkness  and 
woe, 

Why,  lone  Philomela,  that  languishing  fall  ? 

For  spring  shall  return,  and  a lover  bestow, 

And  sorrow  no  longer  thy  bosom  enthrall. 

But,  if  pity  inspire  thee,  renew  the  sad  lay — 

Mourn,  sweetest  complainer,  man  calls  thee 
to  mourn ! 

I O soothe  him,  whose  pleasures  like  thine  pass 
away! 

Full  quickly  they  pass — hut  they  never  re- 
turn. 

“ Now,  gliding  remote  on  the  verge  of  the  sky, 

The  moon,  half  extinguished,  her  crescent  dis- 
plays; 

But  lately  I marked  when  majestic  on  high 

She  shone,  and  the  planets  were  lost  in  her 
blaze. 

Roll  on,  thou  fair  orb,  and  with  gladness  pur- 
sue 

The  path  that  conducts  thee  to  splendor  again! 

But  man’s  faded  glory  what  change  shall  re- 
new? 

Ah,  fool ! to  exult  in  a glory  so  vain ! 

“ ’T  is  night,  and  the  landscape  is  lovely  no 
more. 

I mourn — but,  ye  woodlands,  I mourn  not  for 
you; 

For  morn  is  approaching  your  charms  to  re- 
store, 

Perfumed  with  fresh  fragrance,  and  glittering 
with  dew. 


Nor  yet  for  the  ravage  of  Winter  I mourn — 

Kind  nature  the  embryo  blossom  will  save ; 

But  when  shall  Spring  visit  the  mouldering 
urn? 

O when  shall  day  dawn  on  the  night  of  the 
grave  ? ” 

‘ ’T  was  thus,  by  the  glare  of  false  science  be- 
trayed, 

That  leads  to  bewilder,  and  dazzles  to  blind, 

My  thoughts  wont  to  roam  from  shade  on- 
ward to  shade, 

Destruction  before  me,  and  sorrow  behind. 

“ O pity,  great  Father  of  light,”  then  I cried, 

“Thy  creature,  who  fain  would  not  wander 
from  Thee ! 

Lo,  humbled  in  dust,  I relinquish  my  pride ; 

From  doubt  and  from  darkness  Thou  only 
canst  free.” 

‘And  darkness  and  doubt  are  now  flying 
away; 

No  longer  I roam  in  conjecture  forlorn. 

So  breaks  on  the  traveller,  faint  and  astray, 

The  bright  and  the  balmy  effulgence  of  morn. 

See  truth,  love,  and  mercy  in  triumph  de- 
scending, 

And  nature  all  glowing  in  Eden’s  first  bloom! 

On  the  cold  cheek  of  Death  smilos  and  roses 
are  blending, 

And  beauty  immortal  awakes  from  the  tomb. 

James  Beattie. 


THE  STRIFE. 

The  wish  that  of  the  living  whole 

No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave — 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 
The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  nature  then  at  strife, 

That  nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life, 

That  I,  considering  every  where 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds. 
And  finding  that  of  fifty  seeds 
She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear— 


THE  SLEEP. 


701 


I falter  where  I firmly  trod ; 

And,  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world’s  altar-stairs, 
That  slope  through  darkness  up  to  God, 

I stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


THE  SLAVE  SINGING  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

Lotjd  he  sang  the  psalm  of  David ! 

He,  a negro  and  enslaved — 

Sang  of  Israel’s  victory, 

Sang  of  Zion,  bright  and  free. 

In  that  hour,  when  night  is  calmest, 
Sang  he  from  the  Hebrew  Psalmist, 

In  a voice  so  sweet  and  clear 
That  I could  not  choose  but  hear — 

Songs  of  triumph,  and  ascriptions, 

Such  as  reached  the  swart  Egyptians, 
When  upon  the  Red  Sea  coast 
Perished  Pharaoh  and  his  host. 

And  the  voice  of  his  devotion 
Filled  my  soul  with  strange  emotion ; 
For  its  tones  by  turns  were  glad, 

Sweetly  solemn,  jvildly  sad. 

Paul  and  Silas,  in  their  prison, 

Sang  of  Christ,  the  Lord  arisen ; 

And  an  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Broke  their  dungeon-gates  at  night. 

But,  alas ! what  holy  angel 
Brings  the  slave  this  glad  evangel  ? 

And  what  earthquake’s  arm  of  might 
Breaks  his  dungeon-gates  at  night? 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  SLEEP. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 

Along  the  Psalmist’s  music  deep, 

Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is 

For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this — 

“ He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

The  hero’s  heart,  to  be  unmoved — 

The  poet’s  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep — 

The  senate’s  shout  to  patriot’s  vows — 

The  monarch’s  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ? 

“ He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A little  faith,  all  undisproved — 

A little  dust  to  overweep — 

And  bitter  memories,  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake ! — 

“ He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

“Sleep  soft,  beloved!  ” we  sometimes  say, 
But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep. 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 
“He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

O earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises ! 

O men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 

O delved  gold  the  wailers’  heap ! 

0 strife,  0 curse,  that  o’er  it  fall ! 

God  makes  a silence  through  you  all, 

“ And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

His  dew  drops  mutely  on  the  hill ; 

His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 

Though  on  its  slope  men  toil  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 

Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 

“He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

Yea!  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A living,  thinking,  feeling  man 
In  such  a rest  his  heart  to  keep ; 

But  angels  say — and  through  the  word 

1 ween  their  blessed  smile  is  heard — 

“ He  giveth  Ilis  beloved  sleep.” 


702 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a tired  child  at  a show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  juggler’s  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close — 

Would,  childlike,  on  His  love  repose 
Who  “ giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

And  friends ! — dear  friends ! — when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 

And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 

Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 

Say  “ Hot  a tear  must  o’er  her  fall  ” — 

'‘He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.” 

Elizabeth  Babrett  Browning. 


SLEEP. 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains! 

What  need  you  flow  so  fast  ? 

Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 
Heaven’s  sun  doth  gently  waste. 

But  my  sun’s  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 

That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

Sleep  is  a reconciling — 

A rest  that  peace  begets ; 

Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 

When  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 

Rest  you  then,  rest,  sad  eyes — 

Melt  not  in  weeping, 

While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies 
Sleeping. 

John  Dowland. 


LIFE  ANT)  DEATH. 

Life  and  Death  are  sisters  fair ; 

Yes,  they  are  a lovely  pair. 

Life  is  sung  in  joyous  song; 

While  men  do  her  sister  wrong, 
Calling  her  severe  and  stern 
While  her  heart  for  them  doth  burn. 
Weave,  then,  weave  a grateful  wreath 
For  the  sisters  Life  and  Death. 


If  fair  Life  her  sister  lost, 

On  a boundless  ocean  tost, 

She  would  rove  in  great  unrest, 
Missing  that  warm  loving  breast. 

How,  when  scared  by  wild  alarms, 

She  can  seek  her  sister’s  arms — 

To  that  tender  bosom  flee, 

Sink  to  sleep  in  ecstasy. 

Anonymous. 


THE  GREEHWOOD  SHRIFT. 

Outsteetched  beneath  the  leafy  shade 
Of  Windsor  forest’s  deepest  glade, 

A dying  woman  lay ; 

Three  little  children  round  her  stood, 

And  there  went  up  from  the  greenwood 
A woful  wail  that  day. 

“ O mother ! ” was  the  mingled  cry, 

“ 0 mother,  mother ! do  not  die, 

And  leave  us  all  alone.” 

“ My  blessed  babes ! ” she  tried  to  say — 
But  the  faint  accents  died  away 
In  a low  sobbing  moan. 

And  then,  life  struggling  hard  with  death, 
And  fast  and  strong  she  drew  her  breath, 
And  up  she  raised  her  head ; 

And,  peering  through  the  deep  wood  maze 
With  a long,  sharp,  unearthly  gaze, 

“Will  she  not  come?”  she  said. 

Just  then,  the  parting  boughs  between, 

A little  maid’s  light  form  was  seen, 

All  breathless  with  her  speed ; 

And,  following  close,  a man  came  on 
(A  portly  man  to  look  upon), 

Who  led  a panting  steed. 

“Mother!”  the  little  maiden  cried 
Or  e’er  she  reached  the  woman’s  side, 

And  kissed  her  clay-cold  cheek — 

“I  have  not  idled  in  the  town, 

But  long  went  wandering  up  and  down, 
The  minister  to  seek. 

“They  told  me  here,  they  told  me  there— 
I think  they  mocked  me  every  where ; 


KING  DEATH.  <703 


And  when  I found  his  home, 

And  begged  him  on  my  bended  knee 
To  bring  his  book  and  come  with  me, 
Mother ! he  would  not  come. 

“ I told  him  how  you  dying  lay, 

And  could  not  go  in  peace  away 
Without  the  minister ; 

I begged  him,  for  dear  Christ  his  sake, 

But  O ! my  heart  was  fit  to  break—* 
Mother ! he  would  not  stir. 

“ So,  though  my  tears  were  blinding  me, 

I ran  back,  fast  as  fast  could  he, 

To  come  again  to  you ; 

And  here — close  by — this  squire  I met, 
Who  asked  (so  mild !)  what  made  me  fret ; 
And  when  I told  him  true, 

“ ‘ I will  go  with  you,  child,’  he  said, 

‘ God  sends  me  to  this  dying  bed  ’ — 
Mother,  he ’s  here,  hard  by.” 

While  thus  the  little  maiden  spoke, 

The  man,  his  hack  against  an  oak, 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye. 

The  bridle  on  his  neck  hung  free, 

With  quivering  flank  and  trembling  knee, 
Pressed  close  his  bonny  bay ; 

A statelier  man — a statelier  steed — 

Never  on  greensward  paced,  I rede, 

Than  those  stood  there  that  day. 

So,  while  the  little  maiden  spoke, 

The  man,  his  hack  against  an  oak, 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye 
And  folded  arms,  and  in  his  look 
Something  that,  like  a sermon-hook, 
Preached — “All  is  vanity.” 

But  when  the  dying  woman’s  face 
Turned  toward  him  with  a wishful  gaze, 
He  stepped  to  where  she  lay ; 

And,  kneeling  down,  bent  over  her, 
Saying, — “I  am  a minister — 

My  sister ! let  us  pray.” 

And  well,  withouten  hook  or  stole, 

(God’s  words  were  printed  on  his  soul !) 
Into  the  dying  ear 

He  breathed,  as ’t  were  an  angel’s  strain, 
The  things  that  unto  life  pertain, 

And  death’s  dark  shadows  clear. 


He  spoke  of  sinners’  lost  estate. 

In  Christ  renewed,  regenerate — 

Of  God’s  most  blest  decree, 

That  not  a single  soul  should  die 
Who  turns  repentant,  with  the  cry 
“Be  merciful  to  me.” 

He  spoke  of  trouble,  pain,  and  toil, 
Endured  but  for  a little  while 
In  patience,  faith,  and  love — 

Sure,  in  God’s  own  good  time,  to  be 
Exchanged  for  an  eternity 
Of  happiness  above. 

Then — as  the  spirit  ebbed  away — 

He  raised  his  hands  and  eyes  to  pray 
That  peaceful  it  might  pass ; 

And  then— the  orphans’  sobs  alone 
Were  heard,  and  they  knelt,  every  one, 
Close  round  on  the  green  grass. 

Such  was  the  sight  their  wandering  eyes 
Beheld,  in  heart-struck,  mute  surprise, 
Who  reined  their  coursers  back, 

Just  as  they  found  the  long  astray, 

Who,  in  the  heat  of  chase  that  day, 

Had  wandered  from  their  track. 

But  each  man  reined  his  pawing  steed, 

And  lighted  down,  as  if  agreed, 

In  silence  at  his  side ; 

And  there,  uncovered  all,  they  stood — 

It  was  a wholesome  sight  and  good 
That  day  for  mortal  pride. 

Eor  of  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Was  that  deep-hushed,  bare-headed  band ; 

And,  central  in  the  ring, 

By  that  dead  pauper  on  the  ground, 

Her  ragged  orphans  clinging  round, 

Knelt  their  anointed  king. 

Robert  and  Caroline  Southey. 


KING  DEATH. 

King  Death  was  a rare  old  fellow ! 

He  sat  where  no  sun  could  shine ; 

And  ho  lifted  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  poured  out  his  coal-black  wine. 

Hurrah  ! for  the  coal  Mach  wii\e  ! 


704 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


There  came  to  him  many  a maiden 
Whose  eyes  had  forgot  to  shine, 

And  widows,  with  grief  o’erladen, 

For  a draught  of  his  sleepy  wine. 

Hurrah  ! for  the  coal-black  wine  ! 

The  scholar  left  all  his  learning ; 

The  poet  his  fancied  woes ; 

And  the  beauty  her  bloom  returning, 

Like  life  to  the  fading  rose. 

Hurrah  ! for  the  coal-black  wine  ! 

All  came  to  the  rare  old  fellow, 

Who  laughed  till  his  eyes  dropped  brine, 
As  he  gave  them  his  hand  so  yellow, 

And  pledged  them  in  Death’s  black  wine. 
Hurrah  ! Hurrah  ! * 

Hurrah  ! for  the  coal-black  wine  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


DEATH. 

Beneath  the  endless  surges  of  the  deep, 
Whose  green  content  o’erlaps  them  evermore, 
A host  of  mariners  perpetual  sleep, 

Too  hushed  to  heed  the  wild  commotion’s 
roar; 

The  emerald  weeds  glide  softly  o’er  their 
bones, 

And  wash  them  gently  ’mid  the  rounded 
stones. 

Ho  epitaph  have  they  to  tell  their  tale — 
Their  birth-place,  age,  and  story  all  are  lost — 
Yet  rest  they  deeply  as,  within  the  vale, 
Those  sheltered  bodies  by  the  smooth  slates 
crost ; 

And  countless  tribes  of  men  lie  on  the  hills, 
And  human  blood  runs  in  the  crystal  rills. 

The  air  is  full  of  men  who  once  enjoyed 
The  healthy  element  nor  looked  beyond : 
Many,  who  all  their  mortal  strength  em- 
ployed 

In  human  kindness— of  their  brothers  fond ; 
And  many  more  who  counteracted  fate 
And  battled  in  the  strife  of  common  hate. 
Profoundest  sleep  enwraps  them  all  around — 


Sages  and  sire,  the  child,  and  manhood  strong. 
Shed  not  one  tear;  expend  no  sorrowing 
sound ; 

For  O,  Death  stands  to  welcome  thee  and  me; 
And  life  hath  in  its  breath  a deeper  mystery. 

I hear  a bell  that  tolls  an  empty  note, 

The  mourning  anthem  and  the  sobbing 
prayer ; 

A gra-we  fresh-opened,  where  the  friends  de- 
vote 

To  mouldering  darkness  a still  corpse,  once 
fair 

And  beautiful  as  morning’s  silver  light, 

And  stars  which  throw  their  clear  fire  on  the 
night. 

She  is  not  here  who  smiled  within  these  eyes 
Warmer  than  Spring’s  first  sunbeam  through 
the  pale 

And  tearful  air. — Resist  these  flatteries ; — 

O lay  her  silently  alone,  and  in  this  vale 
Shall  the  sweet  winds  sing  better  dirge  for  her, 
And  the  fine  early  flowers  her  death-clothes 
minister. 

O Death ! thou  art  the  palace  of  our  hopes, 
The  storehouse  of  our  joys,  great  labor’s  end; 
Thou  art  the  bronzed  key  which  swiftly  opes 
The  coffers  of  the  past ; and  thou  shalt  send 
Such  trophies  to  our  hearts  as  sunny  days 
When  life  upon  its  golden  harpstring  plays. 
And  when  a nation  mourns  a silent  voice 
That  long  entranced  its  ear  with  melody, 
How  must  thou  in  thy  inmost  soul  rejoice 
To  wrap  such  treasure  in  thy  boundless  sea ; 
And  thou  wert  dignified  if  but  one  soul 
Had  been  enfolded  in  thy  twilight  stole. 

Triumphal  arches  circle  o’er  thy  deep, 
Dazzling  with  jewels,  radiant  with  content; 
In  thy  vast  arms  the  sons  of  genius  sleep ; 

The  carvings  of  thy  spheral  monument, 
Bearing  no  recollection  of  dim  time 
Within  thy  green  and  most  perennial  prime. 
And  might  I sound  a thought  of  thy  decree, 
How  lapsed  the  dreary  earth  in  fragrant  plea- 
sure, 

And  hummed  along  o’er  life’s  contracted  sea, 
Like  the  swift  petrel,  mimicking  the  wave’s 
measure ; 

But  though  I long,  the  sounds  will  never  come, 
For  in  thy  majesty  my  lesser  voice  is  dumb. 


LIFE. 


70o 


Thou  art  not  anxious  of  thy  precious  fame, 
But  comest  like  the  clouds  soft  stealing  on ; 
Thou  soundest  in  a careless  key  the  name 
Of  him  who  to  thy  boundless  treasury  is  won ; 
And  yet  he  quickly  cometh — for  to  die 
Is  ever  gentlest  to  both  low  and  high. 

Thou  therefore  hast  humanity’s  respect ; 

They  build  thee  tombs  upon  the  green  hill- 
side, 

And  will  not  suffer  thee  the  least  neglect, 
And  tend  thee  with  a desolate  sad  pride ; 

For  thou  art  strong,  0 Death ! though  sweet- 
ly so, 

And  in  thy  lovely  gentleness  sleeps  woe. 

0 what  are  we,  who  swim  upon  this  tide 
Which  we  call  life,  yet  to  thy  kingdom  come? 
Look  not  upon  us  till  we  chasten  pride, 

And  preparation  make  for  thy  high  home ; 
And,  might  we  ask,  make  measurely  approach, 
And  not  upon  these  few  smooth  hours  en- 
croach. 

1 come,  I come,  think  not  I turn  away ! 

Fold  round  me  thy  gray  robe ! I stand  to 

feel 

The  setting  of  my  last  frail  earthly  day. 

I will  not  pluck  it  off,  but  calmly  kneel — 

For  I am  great  as  thou  art,  though  not  thou, 
And  thought  as  with  thee  dwells  upon  my 
brow. 

Ah ! might  I ask  thee,  spirit,  first  to  tend 
Upon  those  dear  ones  whom  my  heart  has 
found, 

And  supplicate  thee,  that  I might  them  lend 
A light  in  their  last  hours,  and  to  the  ground 
Consign  them  still — yet  think  me  not  too 
weak — 

Come  to  me  now,  and  thou  shalt  find  me 
meek. 

Then  let  us  live  in  fellowship  with  thee, 

And  turn  our  ruddy  cheeks  thy  kisses  pale, 
And  listen  to  thy  song  as  minstrelsy, 

And  still  revere  thee,  till  our  hearts’  throbs 
fail — 

Sinking  within  thy  arms  as  sinks  the  sun 
Below  the  farthest  hills,  when  his  day’s  work 
is  done. 

"William  Elleey  Changing. 


SIT  DOWH,  SAD  SOUL. 

Sit  down,  sad  soul,  and  count 
The  moments  flying  ; 

Come — tell  the  sweet  amount 
That ’s  lost  by  sighing ! 

How  many  smiles  ? — a score  ? 

Then  laugh,  and  count  no  more ; 

For  day  is  dying! 

Lie  down,  sad  soul,  and  sleep, 

And  no  more  measure 
The  flight  of  Time,  nor  weep 
The  loss  of  leisure ; 

But  here,  by  this  lone  stream, 

Lie  down  with  us,  and  dream 
Of  starry  treasure ! 

We  dream:  do  thou  the  same; 

We  love — for  ever; 

We  laugh,  yet  few  we  shame — 

The  gentle  never. 

Stay,  then,  till  Sorrow  dies ; 

Then — hope  and  happy  skies 
Are  thine  for  ever ! 

Babby  Cobnwalu 


LIFE. 

We  are  born ; we  laugh ; we  weep ; 

We  love ; we  droop ; we  die ! 

Ah ! wherefore  do  we  laugh  or  weep  ? 

Why  do  we  live  or  die  ? 

Who  knows  that  secret  deep  ? 

Alas,  not  I ! 

Why  doth  the  violet  spring 
Unseen  by  human  eye  ? 

Why  do  the  radiant  seasons  bring 
Sweet  thoughts  that  quickly  fly  ? 
Why  do  our  fond  hearts  cling 
To  things  that  die  ? 

We  toil — through  pain  and  wrong; 

We  fight — and  fly; 

We  love;  we  lose;  and  then,  ere  long, 
Stone-dead  we  lie. 
life ! is  all  thy  song 
“ Endure  and — die  ? ” 


45 


Babby  Cobnwall. 


1 06  POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


A PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

WHAT  THE  HEART  OF  THE  YOUNG-  MAN  SAID 
TO  THE  PSALMIST. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

11  Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! ” 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real ! Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 

“ Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest,” 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 
Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world’s  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a hero  in  the  strife ! 

Trust  no  future,  howe’er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead ! 

Act — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o’erhead ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time — 

Footprints  that  perhaps  another, 

Sailing  o’er  life’s  solemn  main 
A forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a heart  for  any  fate ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

Henby  Wadswoetii  Longfellow. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 

When  the  hours  of  day  are  numbered, 
And  the  voices  of  the  night 
Wake  the  better  soul  that  slumbered 
To  a holy,  calm  delight — 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 
Shadows  from  the  fitful  fire-light 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 
Enter  at  the  open  door — 

The  beloved  ones,  the  true-hearted, 
Come  to  visit  me  once  more ; 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  road-side  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 

Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 
Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more ! 

And  with  them  the  being  beauteous 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a saint  in  heaven. 

With  a slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 

Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine ; 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 
With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 
Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 
Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit’s  voiceless  prayer, 

Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 
Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 

If  I but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 

Henby  Wadswobth  Longfellow. 


LINES  ON  A SKELETON.  707 


MAN’S  MORTALITY. 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 

Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 

Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 

Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 

Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade, 

Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had — 
E’en  such  is  man ; — whose  thread  is  spun, 
Drawn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  done. — 
The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth, 
The  flower  fades,  the  morning  hasteth, 

The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies, 

The  gourd  consumes — and  man  he  dies ! 

Like  to  the  grass  that ’s  newly  sprung, 
Or  like  a tale  that ’s  new  begun, 

Or  like  the  bird  that ’s  here  to-day, 

Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 

Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a span, 

Or  like  the  singing  of  a swan — 

E’en  such  is  man ; — who  lives  by  breath, 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. — 
The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended, 

The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew ’s  ascended, 

The  hour  is  short,  the  span  is  long, 

The  swan ’s  near  death — man’s  life  is  done ! 

Simon  Wastell 


LIFE. 

like  to  the  falling  of  a star, 

Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring’s  gaudy  hue, 

Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 

Or  like  a wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 

Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood — 
E’en  such  is  man,  whoso  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in,  and  paid  to-night. 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies, 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies, 
The  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot, 

The  flight  is  past — and  man  forgot ! 

Henry  King. 


SONNET. 

Of  mortal  glory  O soon  darkened  ray ! 

0 winged  joys  of  man,  more  swift  than  wind ! 

0 fond  desires,  which  in  our  fancies  stray ! 

0 trait’rous  hopes,  which  do  our  judgments 
blind ! 

Lo,  in  a flash  that  light  is  gone  away 

Which  dazzle  did  each  eye,  delight  each 
mind, 

And,  with  that  sun  from  whence  it  came 
combined, 

Now  makes  more  radiant  Heaven’s  eternal 
day. 

Let  Beauty  now  bedew  her  cheeks  with  tears; 

Let  widowed  Music  only  roar  and  groan ; 

Poor  Virtue,  get  thee  wings  and  mount  the 
spheres, 

For  dwelling  place  on  earth  for  thee  is  none! 

Death  hath  thy  temple  razed,  Love’s  empire 
foiled, 

The  world  of  honor,  worth,  and  sweetness 
spoiled. 

"William  Drummond. 


LINES  ON  A SKELETON. 

Behold  this  ruin! — ’T  was  a skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirits  full ! 

This  narrow  cell  was  life’s  retreat ; 

This  space  was  thought’s  mysterious  seat ; 
What  beauteous  pictures  filled  this  spot — 
What  dreams  of  pleasures  long  forgot ! 
Nor  love,  nor  joy,  nor  hope,  nor  fear, 

Has  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 
Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye ; 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void ; — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dew  of  kindness  beamed, 
That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 
When  stars  and  suns  have  lost  their  light. 

Here,  in  this  silent  cavern,  hung 
The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue ; 


708 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


If  falsehood’s  honey  it  disdained, 

And,  where  it  could  not  praise,  was 
chained — 

If  hold  in  virtue’s  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, 

That  tuneful  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 
When  death  unveils  eternity. 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine, 

Or  with  its  envied  rubies  shine  ? 

To  hew  the  rock  or  wear  the  gem 
Can  nothing  now  avail  to  them ; 

But  if  the  page  of  truth  they  sought, 

Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 

These  hands  a richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  waits  on  wealth  or  fame. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  path  of  duty  trod? 

If  from  the  bowers  of  joy  they  fled 
To  soothe  affliction’s  humble  bed — 

If  grandeur’s  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  virtue’s  lap  returned, 

These  feet  with  angels’  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 

Anonymous. 


HYMN  OF  THE  CHURCH  YARD. 

Ah  me ! this  is  a sad  and  silent  city ; 

Let  me  walk  softly  o’er  it,  and  survey 

Its  grassy  streets  with  melancholy  pity ! 

Where  are  its  children  ? where  their  glee- 
some  play  ? 

Alas ! their  cradled  rest  is  cold  and  deep, — 

Their  play  things  are  thrown  by,  and  they 
asleep. 

This  is  pale  beauty’s  bower ; but  where  the 
beautiful, 

Whom  I have  seen  come  forth  at  evening’s 
hours, 

Leading  their  aged  friends,  with  feelings  duti- 
ful, 

Amid  the  wreaths  of  Spring  to  gather 
flowers  ? 

Alas!  no  flowers  are  here  but  flowers  of 
death, 

And  those  who  once  were  sweetest  sleep  be- 
neath. 


This  is  a populous  place:  but  where  the 
bustling, — 

The  crowded  buyers  of  the  noisy  mart, — 

The  lookers  on, — the  snowy  garments  rust- 
ling,— 

The  money-changers,  and  the  men  of  art? 

Business,  alas ! hath  stopped  in  mid  career, 

And  none  are  anxious  to  resume  it  here. 

This  is  the  home  of  grandeur:  where  are 
they,— 

The  rich,  the  great,  the  glorious,  and  the 
wise? 

Where  are  the  trappings  of  the  proud,  the 

gay  — 

The  gaudy  guise  of  human  butterflies  ? 

Alas ! all  lowly  lies  each  lofty  brow, 

And  the  green  sod  dizens  their  beauty  now. 

This  is  a place  of  refuge  and  repose : 

Where  are  the  poor,  the  old,  the  weary 
wight, 

The  scorned,  the  humble,  and  the  man  of 
woes, 

Who  wept  for  morn,  and  sighed  again  for 
night? 

Their  sighs  at  last  have  ceased,  and  here  they 
sleep 

Beside  their  scorners,  and  forget  to  weep. 

This  is  a place  of  gloom : where  are  the 
gloomy  ? 

The  gloomy  are  not  citizens  of  death — 

Approach  and  look,  where  the  long  grass  is 
plumy ; 

See  them  above ! they  are  not  found  be- 
neath ! 

For  these  low  denizens,  with  artful  wiles, 

Nature,  in  flowers,  contrives  her  mimic 
smiles. 

This  is  a place  of  sorrow : friends  have  met 

And  mingled  tears  o’er  those  who  answered 
not ; 

And  where  are  they  whose  eyelids  then  were 
wet? 

Alas!  their  griefs,  their  tears,  are  all  for- 
got; 

They,  too,  are  landed  in  this  silent  city, 

Where  there  is  neither  love,  nor  tears,  nor 
pity. 


THANATOPSIS. 


This  is  a place  of  fear : the  firmest  eye 
Hath  quailed  to  see  its  shadowy  dreariness ; 
But  Christian  hope,  and  heavenly  prospects 
high, 

And  earthly  cares,  and  nature’s  weariness, 
Have  made  the  timid  pilgrim  cease  to  fear, 
And  long  to  end  his  painful  journey  here. 

John  Bethune. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  Nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A various  language ; for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a voice  of  gladness,  and  a smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty;  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness  ere  he  is  aware.  When 
thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow 
house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at 
heart — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature’s  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a still  voice : Yet  a few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ; nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid  with  many 
tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.  Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall 
claim 

Thy  growth  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  for  ever  with  the  elements — 

To  be  a brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.  The 
oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy 
mould. 


Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.  Thou  shalt  lie 
down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with 
kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the 
good — 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.  The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the 
vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between — 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green ; and,  poured 
round  all, 

Old  ocean’s  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.  The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.  All  that 
tread 

The  globe  are  but  a handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning;  traverse  Barca’s  desert  sands, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are 
there; 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them 
down 

In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest;  and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ? All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.  The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of 
care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom;  yet  all  these  shall 
leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 
come 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.  As  the  long 
train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life’s  green  spring,  and  he  who 
goes 


no 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  DEFLECTION. 


In  the  full  strength  of  years — matron,  and 
maid, 

And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed 
man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  he  gathered  to  thy  side 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to 
join 

The  innumerable  caravan  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm  where  each  shall 
take 

His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 

Thou  go  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon;  but,  sustained  and 
soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

William  Cullen  Bey  ant. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VIRTUOUS. 

Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies ! 

When  sinks  a righteous  soul  to  rest, 

How  mildly  beam  the  closiDg  eyes, 

How  gently  heaves  th’  expiring  breast ! 

So  fades  a summer  cloud  away, 

So  sinks  the  gale  when  storms  are  o’er, 

So  gently  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 

So  dies  a wave  along  the  shore. 

Triumphant  smiles  the  victor  brow, 

Fanned  by  some  angel’s  purple  wing ; — 
Where  is,  0 Grave ! thy  victory  now  ? 

And  where,  insidious  Death ! thy  sting  ? 

Farewell,  conflicting  joys  and  fears, 

Where  light  and  shade  alternate  dwell! 
How  bright  th’  unchanging  morn  appears ; — 
Farewell,  inconstant  world,  farewell ! 

Its  duty  done, — as  sinks  the  day, 

Light  from  its  load  the  spirit  flies ; 

While  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  say 
“ Sweet  is  the  scene  when  virtue  dies ! ” 

Anna  L^titia  Baebauld. 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY 
CHURCH-YARD. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day ; 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o’er  the  lea , 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary 
way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to 
me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the 
sight, 

And  all  the  air  a solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning 
flight, 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds ; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower, 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  com- 
plain 

Of  such  as,  wand’ring  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient,  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree’s 
shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a mouldering 
heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twitt’ring  from  the  straw-built 
shed, 

The  cock’s  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly 
bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall 
burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire’s  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has 
broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field ! 
How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy 
stroke ! 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD. 


711 


Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e’er 
gave, 

Await  alike  th’  inevitable  hour. — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o’er  their  tomb  no  trophies 
raise, 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and 
fretted  vault 

The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of 
praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor’s  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial 
fire — 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have 
swayed, 

Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  ; 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne’er  un- 
roll; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark, unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear; 
Full  many  a flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless 
breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood — 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country’s 
blood. 

Th’  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o’er  a smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a nation’s  eyes, 


Their  lot  forbade ; nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes 
confined — 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a 
throne, 

And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind : 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to 
hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse’s  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd’s  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  ev’n  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 
Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture 
decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th’  unlet- 
tered Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply ; 

And  many  a holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e’er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  be- 
hind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires ; 
E’en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E’en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th’  unhonored 
dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate ; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate — 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say : 
“Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of 
dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn : 


712 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


“ There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old,  fantastic  roots  so 
high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he 
stretch, 

And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

M Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would 
rove — 

How  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless 
love. 

“One  morn  I missed  him  on  the  customed 
hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree ; 

Another  came — nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he ; 

“ The  next,  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 
Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw 
him  borne : — 

Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can’st  read)  the 
lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged 
thorn,” 


There  scattered  oft,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 
By  hands  unseen,  are  showers  of  violets 
found ; 

The  redbreast  loves  to  build  and  warble 
there, 

And  little  footsteps  lightly  print  the  ground. 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 
Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere — 
Heaven  did  a recompense  as  largely  send ; 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  he  had)  a tear, 

He  gained  from  Heaven  (’twas  all  he 
wished)  a friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread 
abode — 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

Thomas  Gbay. 


PART  X. 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


0 ! what  is  man,  great  Maker  of  mankind ! 

That  Thou  to  him  so  great  respect  dost  bear — 

That  Thou  adorn’st  him  with  so  bright  a mind, 

Mak’st  him  a king,  and  even  an  angel’s  peer  ? 

0 ! what  a lively  life,  what  heavenly  power, 

What  spreading  virtue,  what  a sparkling  fire ! 

How  great,  how  plentiful,  how  rich  a dower 
Dost  Thou  within  this  dying  flesh  inspire ! 

Thou  leav’st  Thy  print  in  other  works  of  Thine, 

But  Thy  whole  image  Thou  in  man  hast  writ ; 

There  cannot  be  a creature  more  divine, 

Except,  like  Thee,  it  should  be  infinite. 

But  it  exceeds  man’s  thought,  to  think  how  high 
God  hath  raised  man,  since  God  a man  became ; 

The  angels  do  admire  this  mystery, 

And  are  astonished  when  they  view  the  same. 

N jr  hath  he  given  these  blessings  for  a day, 

Nor  made  them  on  the  body’s  life  depend  : 

The  soul,  though  made  in  time,  survives  for  aye ; 

And  though  it  hath  beginning,  sees  no  end. 

Sib  John  Davies. 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION 


DARKNESS  IS  THINNING. 

Darkness  is  thinning ; shadows  are  retreat- 
ing: 

Morning  and  light  are  coming  in  their  beauty. 
Suppliant  seek  we,  with  an  earnest  outcry, 
God  the  Almighty ! 

So  that  our  Master,  having  mercy  on  us, 

May  repel  languor,  may  bestow  salvation, 
Granting  us,  Father,  of  Thy  loving  kindness 
Glory  hereafter! 

This  of  His  mercy,  ever  Blessed  Godhead, 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Spirit,  give  us — 
Whom  through  the  wide  world  celebrate  for 
ever 

Blessing  and  Glory ! 

St.  Gregory  the  Great.  (Latin.) 
Translation  of  John  Mason  Neale. 


EARLY  RISING  AND  PRAYER. 

When  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy  soul 
leave 

To  do  the  like ; our  bodies  but  forerun 

The  spirit’s  duty : true  hearts  spread  and 
heave 

Unto  their  God  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun. 

Give  Him  thy  first  thoughts  then,  so  shalt 
thou  keep 

Him  company  all  day,  and  in  Him  sleep. 


Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up,  prayer  should 
Dawn  with  the  day;  there  are  set  awful 
hours 

’T  wixt  heaven  and  us ; the  manna  was  not 
good 

After  sun-rising ; far-day  sullies  flowers. 

Rise  to  prevent  the  sun ; sleep  doth  sins  glut, 
And  heaven’s  gate  opens  when  the  world’s 
is  shut. 

Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures:  note  the 
hush 

And  whisperings  among  them.  Not  a spring 
Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning  hymn ; each 
bush 

And  oak  doth  know  I AM.  Canst  thou  not 
sing? 

O,  leave  thy  cares  and  follies ! go  this  way, 
And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day. 

Serve  God  before  the  world ; let  Him  not  go 
Until  thou  hast  a blessing ; then  resign 
The  whole  unto  Him,  and  remember  who 
Prevailed  by  wrestling  ere  the  sun  did  shine : 
Pour  oil  upon  the  stones,  weep  for  thy  sin, 
Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  heaven. 

Mornings  are  mysteries:  the  first,  world’s 
youth, 

Man’s  resurrection,  and  the  future’s  bud, 
Shroud  in  their  births;  the  crown  of  life, 
light,  truth, 

Is  styled  their  star — the  stone  and  hidden 
food. 

Three  blessings  wait  upon  them,  one  of  which 
Should  move— they  make  us  holy,  happy, 
rich. 


716 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


When  the  world’s  up,  and  every  swarm 
abroad, 

Keep  well  thy  temper,  mix  not  with  each 
clay; 

Despatch  necessities ; life  hath  a load 

Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely  may : 

Yet  keep  those  cares  without  thee ; let  the 
heart 

Be  God’s  alone,  and  choose  the  better  part. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


THE  SPIRIT-LAND. 

Father  ! Thy  wonders  do  not  singly  stand, 
Nor  far  removed  where  feet  have  seldom 
strayed ; 

Around  us  ever  lies  the  enchanted  land, 

In  marvels  rich  to  Thine  own  sons  displayed ; 
In  finding  Thee  are  all  things  round  us  found ; 
In  losing  Thee  are  all  things  lost  beside ; 

Ears  have  we,  but  in  vain  strange  voices 
sound; 

And  to  our  eyes  the  vision  is  denied ; 

We  wander  in  the  country  far  remote, 

Mid  tombs  and  ruined  piles  in  death  to 
dwell; 

Or  on  the  records  of  past  greatness  dote, 

And  for  a buried  soul  the  living  sell ; 

While  on  our  path  bewildered  falls  the  night 
That  ne’er  returns  us  to  the  fields  of  light. 

Jones  Very. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER’S  DEVOTION. 

Sing  aloud ! His  praise  rehearse, 

Who  hath  made  the  universe. 

He  the  boundless  heavens  has  spread, 
All  the  vital  orbs  has  kned ; 

He  that  on  Olympus  high 
Tends  His  flock  with  watchful  eye ; 

And  this  eye  has  multiplied 
Midst  each  flock  for  to  reside. 

Thus,  as  round  about  they  stray, 
Toucheth  each  with  outstretched  ray : 
Nimbly  they  hold  on  their  way, 

Shaping  out  their  night  and  day. 

Never  slack  they ; none  respires, 
Dancing  round  their  central  fires. 


In  due  order  as  they  move, 

Echoes  sweet  be  gently  drove 
Through  heaven’s  vast  hollowness, 

Which  unto  all  comers  press — 

Music,  that  the  heart  of  Jove 
Moves  to  joy  and  sportful  love, 

Fills  the  listening  sailor’s  ears, 

Riding  on  the  wandering  spheres. 

Neither  speech  nor  language  is 
Where  their  voice  is  not  transmiss. 

God  is  good,  is  wise,  is  strong- — 

Witness  all  the  creature-throng — 

Is  confessed  by  every  tongue. 

All  things  back  from  whence  they 
sprung, 

As  the  thankful  rivers  pay 
What  they  borrowed  of  the  sea. 

Now,  myself,  I do  resign; 

Take  me  whole,  I all  am  Thine. 

Save  me,  God ! from  self-desire, 

Death’s  pit,  dark  hell’s  raging  fire, 

Envy,  hatred,  vengeance,  ire ; 

Let  not  lust  my  soul  bemire. 

Quit  from  these,  Thy  praise  I ’ll  sing, 
Loudly  sweep  the  trembling  string. 

Bear  a part,  O wisdom’s  sons, 

Freed  from  vain  religions  ! 

Lo ! from  far  I you  salute, 

Sweetly  warbling  on  my  lute — 

India,  Egypt,  Araby, 

Asia,  Greece,  and  Tartary, 

Carmel-tracts  and  Lebanon, 

With  the  mountains  of  the  moon, 

From  whence  muddy  Nile  doth  run ; 

Or,  wherever  else  you  won, 

Breathing  in  one  vital  air — 

One  we  are  though  distant  far. 

Rise  at  once — let’s  sacrifice  ! 

Odors  sweet  perfume  the  skies. 

See  how  heavenly  lightning  fires 
Hearts  inflamed  with  high  aspires ; 

All  the  substance  of  our  souls 
Up  in  clouds  of  incense  rolls ! 

Leave  we  nothing  to  ourselves 
Save  a voice — what  need  we  else  ? 


THE  BEE. 


Or  a hand  to  wear  and  tire 
On  the  thankful  lute  or  lyre. 

Sing  aloud ! His  praise  rehearse 
Who  hath  made  the  universe. 

Henby  Mobe. 


THE  BEE. 

Fkom  fruitful  beds  and  flowery  borders, 
Parcelled  to  wasteful  ranks  and  orders, 
Where  state  grasps  more  than  plain  truth 
needs, 

And  wholesome  herbs  are  starved  by  weeds, 
To  the  wild  woods  I will  be  gone, 

And  the  coarse  meals  of  great  Saint  John. 

When  truth  and  piety  are  missed, 

Both  in  the  rulers  and  the  priest ; 

When  pity  is  not  cold,  but  dead, 

And  the  rich  eat  the  poor  like  bread ; 

While  factious  heads,  with  open  coil 
And  force,  first  make,  then  share,  the  spoil ; 
To  Horeb  then  Elias  goes, 

And  in  the  desert  grows  the  rose. 

Hail,  crystal  fountains  and  fresh  shades, 
Where  no  proud  look  invades, 

No  busy  worldling  hunts  away 
The  sad  retirer  all  the  day ! 

Hail,  happy,  harmless  solitude ! 

Our  sanctuary  from  the  rude 
And  scornful  world ; the  calm  recess 
Of  faith,  and  hope,  and  holiness ! 

Here  something  still  like  Eden  looks — 
Honey  in  woods,  juleps  in  brooks ; 

And  flowers  whose  rich,  unrifled  sweets 
With  a chaste  kiss  the  cool  dew  greets, 
When  the  toils  of  the  day  are  done, 

And  the  tired  world  sets  with  the  sun. 

Here  flying  winds  and  flowing  wells 
Are  the  wise,  watchful  hermit’s  bells ; 

Their  busy  murmurs  all  the  night 
To  praise  or  prayer  do  invite ; 

And  with  an  awful  sound  arrest, 

And  piously  employ  his  breast. 

When  in  the  East  the  dawn  doth  blush, 
Here  cool,  fresh  spirits  the  air  brush ; 


•M 

Herbs  straight  get  up ; flowers  peep  and  spread ; 
Trees  whisper  praise,  and  bow  the  head ; 
Birds,  from  the  shades  of  night  released, 

Look  round  about,  then  quit  the  nest, 

And  with  united  gladness  sing 
The  glory  of  the  morning’s  King. 

The  hermit  hears,  and  with  meek  voice 
Offers  his  own  up,  and  their  joys ; 

Then  prays  that  all  the  world  might  be 
Blest  with  as  sweet  an  unity. 

If  sudden  storms  the  day  invade, 

They  flock  about  him  to  the  shade, 

Where  wisely  they  expect  the  end, 

Giving  the  tempest  time  to  spend ; 

And  hard  by,  shelters  on  some  bough 
Hilarion’s  servant,  the  sage  crow. 

O purer  years  of  light  and  grace ! 

Great  is  the  difference,  as  the  space, 

’Twixt  you  and  us,  who  blindly  run 
After  false  fires,  and  leave  the  sun. 

Is  not  fair  nature  of  herself 

Much  richer  than  dull  paint  and  pelf? 

And  are  not  streams  at  the  spring  head 
More  sweet  than  in  carved  stone  or  lead  ? 
But  fancy  and  some  artist’s  tools 
Frame  a religion  for  fools. 

The  truth,  which  once  was  plainly  taught, 
With  thorns  and  briars  now  is  fraught. 

Some  part  is  with  bold  fables  spotted, 

Some  by  strange  comments  wildly  blotted ; 
And  discord,  old  corruption’s  crest. 

With  blood  and  blame  have  stained  the  rest. 
So  snow,  which  in  its  first  descents 
A whiteness  like  pure  heaven  presents, 

When  touched  by  man  is  quickly  soiled, 

And  after  trodden  down  and  spoiled. 

0 lead  me  where  I may  be  free 
In  truth  and  spirit  to  serve  Thee ! 

Where  undisturbed  I may  converse 
With  Thy  great  Self ; and  there  rehearse 
Thy  gifts  with  thanks ; and  from  Thy  store, 
Who  art  all  blessings,  beg  much  more. 

Give  me  the  wisdom  of  the  bee, 

And  her  unwearied  industry  ! 

That  from  the  wild  gourds  of  these  days, 

1 may  extract  health,  and  Thy  praise 
Who  canst  turn  darkness  into  light, 

And  in  my  weakness  show  Thy  might. 


718 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Suffer  me  not  in  any  want 
To  seek  refreshment  from  a plant 
Thou  didst  not  set ; since  all  must  he 
Plucked  up  whose  growth  is  not  from  Thee. 
’Tis  not  the  garden  and  the  bowers, 

Nor  sense  and  forms,  that  give  to  flowers 
Their  wholesomeness ; hut  Thy  good  will, 
Which  truth  and  pureness  purchase  still. 

Then,  since  corrupt  man  hath  driven  hence 
Thy  kind  and  saving  influence, 

And  balm  is  no  more  to  be  had 
In  all  the  coasts  of  Gilead — 

Go  with  me  to  the  shade  and  cell  . 

Where  Thy  best  servants  once  did  dwell. 
There  let  me  know  Thy  will,  and  see 
Exiled  religion  owned  by  Thee ; 

For  Thou  canst  turn  dark  grots  to  halls, 

And  make  hills  blossom  like  the  vales, 
Decking  their  untilled  heads  with  flowers, 
And  fresh  delights  for  all  sad  hours ; 

Till  from  them,  like  a laden  bee, 

I may  fly  home,  and  hive  with  Thee ! 

HeJTBY  VaEGHAN. 


THE  ELDER  SCRIPTURE. 

There  is  a book,  who  runs  may  read, 
Which  heavenly  truth  imparts, 

And  all  the  lore  its  scholars  need — 

Pure  eyes  and  loving  hearts. 

The  works  of  God,  above,  below, 

Within  us,  and  around, 

Are  pages  in  that  book,  to  show 
How  God  himself  is  found. 

The  glorious  sky,  embracing  all, 

Is  like  the  Father’s  love ; 

Wherewith  encompassed,  great  and  small 
In  peace  and  order  move. 

The  dew  of  heaven  is  like  His  grace  : 

It  steals  in  silence  down  ; 

But  where  it  lights,  the  favored  place 
By  richest  fruits  is  known. 

Two  worlds  are  ours : tis  only  sin 
Forbids  us  to  descry 

The  mystic  heaven  and  earth  within, 
Plain  as  the  earth  aDd  sky. 


Thou  who  hast  given  me  eyes  to  see 
And  love  this  sight  so  fair, 

Give  me  a heart  to  find  out  Thee 
And  read  Thee  every  where. 

John  Keble. 


GOD  IN  NATURE. 

Geeat  Ruler  of  all  Nature’s  frame! 

We  own  Thy  power  divine ; 

We  hear  Thy  breath  in  every  storm, 

For  all  the  winds  are  Thine. 

Wide  as  they  sweep  their  sounding  way, 
They  work  Thy  sovereign  will ; 

And  awed  by  Thy  majestic  voice, 
Confusion  shall  be  still. 

Thy  mercy  tempers  every  blast 
To  them  that  seek  Thy  face, 

And  mingles  with  the  tempest’s  roar 
The  whispers  of  Thy  grace. 

Those  gentle  whispers  let  me  hear, 

Till  all  the  tumult  cease ; 

And  gales  of  Paradise  shall  lull 
My  weary  soul  to  peace. 

Philip  Doddbidge. 


FOR  NEW-YEAR’S  DAY. 

Eternal  source  of  every  joy ! 

Well  may  Thy  praise  our  lips  employ, 
While  in  Thy  temple  we  appear 
Whose  goodness  crowns  the  circling  year. 

While  as  the  wheels  of  nature  roll, 

Thy  hand  supports  the  steady  pole ; 

The  sun  is  taught  by  Thee  to  rise, 

And  darkness  when  to  veil  the  skies. 

The  flowery  spring  at  Thy  command 
Embalms  the  air,  and  paints  the  land ; 
The  summer  rays  with  vigor  shine 
To  raise  the  corn,  and  cheer  the  vine. 


AN  ODE. 


719 


Thy  hand  in  autumn  richly  pours 
Through  all  our  coasts  redundant  stores ; 
And  winters,  softened  by  Thy  care, 

No  more  a face  of  horror  wear. 

Seasons,  and  months,  and  weeks,  and  days 
Demand  successive  songs  of  praise ; 

Still  he  the  cheerful  homage  paid 
With  opening  light  and  evening  shade. 

Here  in  Thy  house  shall  incense  rise, 

As  circling  Sabbaths  bless  our  eyes ; 

Still  will  we  make  Thy  mercies  known, 
Around  Thy  board,  and  round  our  own. 

0 may  our  more  harmonious  tongues 
In  worlds  unknown  pursue  the  songs ; 
And  in  those  brighter  courts  adore 
Where  days  and  years  revolve  no  more. 

Philip  Doddridge. 


“MARK  THE  SOFT-FALLING  SNOW.” 

Makk  the  soft-falling  snow, 

And  the  diffusive  rain : 

To  heaven  from  whence  it  fell, 

It  turns  not  back  again, 

But  waters  earth 
Through  every  pore, 

And  calls  forth  all 
Its  secret  store. 

Arrayed  in  beauteous  green 
The  hills  and  valleys  shine, 

And  man  and  beast  is  fed 
By  Providence  divine ; 

The  harvest  bows 
Its  golden  ears, 

The  copious  seed 
Of  future  years. 

“ So,”  saith  the  God  of  grace, 

“ My  gospel  shall  descend — 
Almighty  to  effect 
The  purpose  I intend ; 


Millions  of  souls 
Shall  feel  its  power, 

And  bear  it  down 
To  millions  more. 

“Joy  shall  begin  your  march, 

And  peace  protect  your  ways, 

While  all  the  mountains  round 
Echo  melodious  praise ; 

The  vocal  groves 
Shall  sing  the  God, 

And  every  tree 
Consenting  nod.” 

Philip  Doddridge. 


AN  ODE. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

The  spangled  heavens,  a shining  frame, 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 
Does  his  Creator’s  power  display ; 

And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  almighty  hand. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 

The  moon  takes  up  the  wond’rous  tale, 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 

Whilst  all  the  stars,  that  round  her  burn. 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  this  dark,  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 

In  reason’s  ear  they  all  rejoice, 

And  utter  forth  a glorious  voice, 

Forever  singing  as  they  shine 
“ The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine ! ” 

Joseph  Addison. 


720 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


. SUN,  MOON,  AND  STARS,  PRAISE  YE 
THE  LORD. 

Faibest  of  all  the  lights  above ! 

Thon  sun,  whose  beams  adorn  the  spheres, 
And  with  unwearied  swiftness  move 
To  form  the  circles  of  our  years — 

Praise  the  Creator  of  the  skies, 

That  dressed  thine  orb  in  golden  rays ; 

Or  may  the  sun  forget  to  rise, 

If  he  forget  his  Maker’s  praise. 

Thou  reigning  beauty  of  the  night, 

Fair  queen  of  silence,  silver  moon, 

Whose  gentle  beams  and  borrowed  light 
Are  softer  rivals  of  the  noon  ; 

Arise,  and  to  that  sovereign  power 
Waxing  and  waning  honors  pay, 

Who  bade  thee  rule  the  dusky  hour, 

And  half  supply  the  absent  day. 

Ye  twinkling  stars,  who  gild  the  skies 
When  darkness  has  its  curtains  drawn, 
Who  keep  your  watch,  with  wakeful  eyes, 
When  business,  cares,  and  day  are  gone ; 

Proclaim  the  glories  of  your  Lord, 
Dispersed  through  all  the  heavenly  street, 
Whose  boundless  treasures  can  afford 
So  rich  a pavement  for  His  feet. 

Thou  heaven  of  heavens,  supremely  bright, 
Fair  palace  of  the  court  divine, 

Where,  with  inimitable  light, 

The  Godhead  condescends  to  shine — 

Praise  thou  thy  great  Inhabitant, 

Who  scatters  lovely  beams  of  grace 
On  every  angel,  every  saint, 

Nor  veils  the  lustre  of  His  face ! 

O God  of  glory,  God  of  love ! 

Thou  art  the  sun  that  makes  our  days ; 
With  all  Thy  shining  works  above, 

Let  earth  and  dust  attempt  Thy  praise  I 
Isaac  Watts. 


PRAISE  FOR  CREATION  AND  PROVI- 
DENCE. 

I sing-  the  almighty  power  of  God, 

That  made  the  mountains  rise, 

That  spread  the  flowing  seas  abroad, 
And  built  the  lofty  skies. 

I sing  the  wisdom  that  ordained 
The  sun  to  rule  the  day ; 

The  moon  shines  full  at  His  command, 
And  all  the  stars  obey. 

I sing  the  goodness  of  the  Lord, 

That  filled  the  earth  with  food ; 

He  formed  the  creatures  with  His  word, 
And  then  pronounced  them  good. 

Lord,  how  Thy  wonders  are  displayed 
Where’er  I turn  mine  eye — 

If  I survey  the  ground  I tread, 

Or  gaze  upon  the  sky. 

There ’s  not  a plant  or  flower  below, 
But  makes  Thy  glories  known ; 

And  clouds  arise  and  tempests  blow, 

By  order  from  Thy  throne. 

Creatures  (as  numerous  as  they  be) 

Are  subject  to  thy  care ; 

There ’s  not  a place  where  we  can  flee 
But  God  is  present  there. 

In  heaven  He  shines  with  beams  of  love, 
With  wrath  in  hell  beneath ! 

’T  is  on  His  earth  I stand  or  move, 

And ’t  is  His  air  I breathe. 

His  hand  is  my  perpetual  guard ; 

He  keeps  me  with  His  eye ; 

Why  should  I then  forget  the  Lord, 

Who  is  for  ever  nigh  ? 

Isaac  Watts. 


IN  A CLEAR  STARRY  NIGHT. 


721 


SINCERE  PRAISE. 

Almighty  Maker,  God ! 

How  wondrous  is  Thy  name ! 

Thy  glories  how  diffused  abroad 
Through  the  creation’s  frame ! 

Nature  in  every  dress 
Her  humble  homage  pays, 

And  finds  a thousand  ways  to  express 
Thine  undissembled  praise. 

In  native  white  and  red 
The  rose  and  lily  stand, 

And,  free  from  pride,  their  beauties 
spread 

To  show  Thy  skilful  hand. 

The  lark  mounts  up  the  sky, 

With  unambitious  song, 

And  bears  her  Maker’s  praise  on  high, 
Upon  her  artless  tongue. 

My  soul  would  rise  and  sing 
To  her  Creator  too — 

Fain  would  my  tongue  adore  my  King, 
And  pay  the  worship  due. 

But  pride,  that  busy  sin, 

Spoils  all  that  I perform ; 

Cursed  pride,  that  creeps  securely  in, 
And  swells  a haughty  worm. 

Thy  glories  I abate, 

Or  praise  Thee  with  design ; 

Some  of  Thy  favors  I forget, 

Or  think  the  merit  mine. 

The  very  songs  I frame 
Are  faithless  to  Thy  cause, 

And  steal  the  honors  of  Thy  name 
To  build  their  own  applause. 

Create  my  soul  anew, 

Else  all  my  worship ’s  vain  ; 

This  wretched  heart  will  ne’er  be  true 
Until ’t  is  formed  again. 

46 


Descend,  celestial  fire, 

And  seize  me  from  above ; 

Melt  me  in  flames  of  pure  desire — 

A sacrifice  to  love. 

Let  joy  and  worship  spend 
The  remnant  of  my  days, 

And  to  my  God,  my  soul,  ascend 
In  sweet  perfumes  of  praise. 

Isaac  Watts, 


IN  A CLEAR  STARRY  NIGHT. 

Lokd  ! when  those  glorious  lights  I see 
With  which  Thou  hast  adorned  the  skies, 
Observing  how  they  moved  be, 

And  how  their  splendor  fills  mine  eyes, 

Methinks  it  is  too  large  a grace, 

But  that  Thy  love  ordained  it  so — 

That  creatures  in  so  high  a place 
Should  servants  be  to  man  below. 

The  meanest  lamp  now  shining  there 
In  size  and  lustre  doth  exceed 
The  noblest  of  Thy  creatures  here, 

And  of  our  friendship  hath  no  need. 

Yet  these  upon  mankind  attend, 

For  secret  aid,  or  public  light ; 

And  from  the  world’s  extremest  end 
Repair  unto  us  every  night. 

O ! had  that  stamp  been  undefaced 
Which  first  on  us  Thy  hand  had  set, 

How  highly  should  we  have  been  graced, 
Since  we  are  so  much  honored  yet. 

Good  God,  for  what  but  for  the  sake 
Of  Thy  beloved  and  only  Son, 

Who  did  on  Him  our  nature  take, 

Were  these  exceeding  favors  done ! 

As  we  by  Him  have  honored  been, 

Let  us  to  Him  due  honors  give ; 

Let  His  uprightness  hide  our  sin, 

And  let  us  worth  from  Him  receive. 

Yea,  so  let  us  by  grace  improve 
What  Thou  by  nature  dost  bestow 
That  to  Thy  dwelling-place  above 
We  may  be  raised  from  below. 

George  Wither. 


722  POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRIST’S  NA- 
TIVITY. 

i. 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn, 
Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven’s  eternal  King, 
Of  wedded  Maid  and  Virgin  Mother  born, 
i Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring — 
! For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing — 

That  He  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 
And  with  His  Father  work  us  a perpetual 
peace. 

ii. 

That  glorious  form,  that  light  unsufferable, 
And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  majesty 
Wherewith  He  wont  at  heaven’s  high  council- 
table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 

He  laid  aside ; and  here  with  us  to  be 
Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 

And  chose  with  us  a darksome  house  of  mor- 
tal clay. 

m. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse!  shall  not  thy  sacred 
vein 

Afford  a present  to  the  Infant  God  ? 

Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn 
strain, 

To  welcome  Him  to  this  His  new  abode — 
Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun’s  team 
untrod, 

Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching 
light, 

And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in 
squadrons  bright? 

IV. 

See  how  from  far  upon  the  eastern  road 
The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odors  sweet ! 
O run ! prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode, 
And  lay  it  lowly  at  his  blessed  feet ; 

Have  thou  the  honor  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 
And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  angel  choir, 
From  out  His  secret  altar  touched  with  hal- 
lowed fire. 


THE  HYMN. 

I. 

It  was  the  winter  wild 
While  the  heaven-born  child 
All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger 
lies — 

Nature,  in  awe  to  Him, 

Had  doffed  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize ; 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 
To  wanton  with  the  Sun,  her  lusty  para- 
mour. 

n. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 
She  woos  the  gentle  air 
To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent 
snow, 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw — 
Confounded  that  her  Maker’s  eyes 
Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformi- 
ties. 

m. 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace ; 

She,  crowned  with  olive  green,  came  softly 
sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  divid- 
ing; 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 

She  strikes  a universal  peace  through  sea 
and  land. 

IV. 

Nor  war,  or  battle’s  sound, 

Was  heard  the  world  around — 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  up 
hung; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 
Unstained  with  hostile  blood ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed 
throng ; 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovereign  Lord 
was  by. 


THE  HYMN. 


Y. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 
Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began ; 
The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly  the  waters  kissed, 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean, 
Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the 
charmed  wave. 

VI. 

The  stars  with  deep  amaze 
Stand  fixed  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  their  .precious  influence ; 
And  will  not  take  their  flight 
For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warned  them  thence ; 
But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 
Until  their  Lord  himself  bespake,  and  bid 
them  go. 

VII. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 
Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted 
speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlightened  world  no  more  should 
need ; 

He  saw  a greater  sun  appear 
Than  his  bright  throne  or  burning  axle-tree 
could  bear. 

vin. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn, 

Or  e’er  the  point  of  dawn, 

Sat  simply  chatting  in  a rustic  row ; 

Full  little  thought  they  then 
That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below ; 
Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep, 

Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy 
keep. 

IX. 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook — 
Divinely-warbled  voice 


1 23 

Answering  the  stringed  noise, 

As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took ; 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loath  to  lose, 

With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each 
heavenly  close. 

x. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 
Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia’s  seat  the  airy  region  thrilling, 
Now  was  almost  won 
To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  ful- 
filling ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 
Could  hold  all  heaven  and  earth  in  happier 
union. 

XI. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 
A globe  of  circular  light, 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night 
arrayed ; 

The  helmed  Cherubim 
And  sworded  Seraphim 
Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings 
displayed, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  choir, 

With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven’s  new- 
born Heir — 

XII. 

Such  music  (as ’t  is  said) 

Before  was  never  made, 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung, 
While  the  Creator  great 
His  constellations  set, 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges 
hung, 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy 
channel  keep. 

XIII. 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres ! 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time, 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven’s  deep  organ 
blow ; 


724 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 
Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  sym- 
phony. 

XIV. 

For  if  such  holy  song 
Inwrap  our  fancy  long, 

Time  will  run  hack,  and  fetch  the  age  of 
gold; 

And  speckled  Vanity 
Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  Siu  will  melt  from  earthly 
mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  dolorous  mansions  to  the 
peering  day. 

xv. 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 
Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orbed  in  a rainbow;  and,  like  glories 
wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between, 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down 
steering ; 

And  heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace 
hall. 

XVI. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  Ho — 

This  must  not  yet  be  so ; 

The  babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 
That  on  the  bitter  cross 
Must  rodeem  our  loss, 

So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify. 

Yet  first  to  those  ye  chained  in  sleep 
The  wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thunder 
through  the  deep, 

XVII. 

With  such  a horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang, 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds 
out-brake ; 

The  aged  earth,  aghast 
With  terror  of  that  blast, 

Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake — 
When,  at  the  world’s  last  session, 

The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall  spread 
His  throne. 


xvm. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 
Full  and  perfect  is — 

But  now  begins ; for  from  this  happy  day 
The  old  Dragon,  under  ground 
In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway, 

And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail, 

Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

XIX. 

The  oracles  are  dumb ; 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words 
deceiving ; 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos 
leaving ; 

No  nightly  trance,  or  breathed  spell, 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  pro- 
phetic cell. 

xx. 

The  lonely  mountains  o’er, 

And  the  resounding  shore, 

A voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplar  pale, 

The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of  tangled 
thickets  mourn. 

XXI. 

In  consecrated  earth, 

And  on  the  holy  hearth, 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight 
plaint ; 

In  urns  and  altars  round 
A drear  and  dying  sound 
Affrights  the  flamens  at  their  service 
quaint ; 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes  his 
wonted  seat. 

XXII. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 

With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine ; 


F 


EPIPHANY. 


725 


And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 

Heaven’s  queen  and  mother  both, 

Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers’  holy  shine ; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn — 

In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded 
Thammuz  mourn. 

xxm. 

And  sullen  Moloch  fled, 

Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue ; 

In  vain,  with  cymbals’  ring, 

They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast — 

Isis  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis — haste. 


And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 
Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their 
moon-loved  maze. 

XXVII. 

But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest — 

Time  is  our  tedious  song  should  here  have 
ending ; 

Heaven’s  youngest  teemed  star 
Hath  fixed  her  polished  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  handmaid  lamp 
attending ; 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 
Bright-harnessed  angels  sit  in  order  service- 
able. 

John  Milton. 


xxiv. 


Nor  is  Osiris  seen 
In  Memphian  grove  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshowered,  grass  with 
lowings  loud ; 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 
Within  his  sacred  chest — 

Nought  but  profoundest  hell  can  be  his 
shroud ; 

In  vain  with  timbrelled  anthems  dark 
The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  wor- 
shipped ark. 

xxv. 

He  feels  from  Juda’s  land 
The  dreaded  Infant’s  hand — 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn ; 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Longer  dare  abide — 

Not  Typhon  huge,  ending  in  snaky  twine ; 
Our  babe,  to  show  His  God-head  true, 

Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the 
damned  crew. 

XXVI. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed, 

Curtained  with  cloudy  red, 

Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 

The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail — 

Each  fettered  ghost  slips  to  his  several 
grave ; 


EPIPHANY. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morn- 
ing, 

Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  thine 
aid! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid ! 

Cold  on  His  cradle  the  dew-drops  are  shining; 
Low  lies  His  bed  with  the  beasts  of  the 
stall ; 

Angels  adore  Him  in  slumber  reclining — 
Maker,  and  Monarch,  and  Saviour  of  all. 

Say,  shall  we  yield  Him,  in  costly  devotion, 
Odors  of  Edom,  and  offerings  divine — 
Gems  of  the  mountain,  and  pearls  of  the 
ocean — 

Myrrh  from  the  forest,  and  gold  from  the 
mine? 

Vainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation, 

Vainly  with  gold  would  His  favor  secure  ; 
Richer  by  far  is  the  heart’s  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Brightest  and  best  of  the  sons  of  the  morning, 
Dawn  on  our  darkness,  and  lend  us  thine 
aid! 

Star  of  the  East,  the  horizon  adorning, 

Guide  where  our  infant  Redeemer  is  laid ! 

Reginald  IIebkr. 


•726 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


MESSIAH. 

Ye  nymphs  of  Solyma ! begin  the  song — 

To  heavenly  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus  and  the  Aonian  maids, 
Delight  no  more — O thou  my  voice  inspire 
Who  touched  Isaiah’s  hallowed  lips  with  fire ! 

Rapt  into  future  times  the  bard  began : 

A virgin  shall  conceive — a virgin  bear  a son ! 
From  Jesse’s  root  behold  a branch  arise 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the 
skies ! 

Th’  ethereal  spirit  o’er  its  leaves  shall  move, 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 

Ye  heavens ! from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower ! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall 
aid — 

From  storm  a shelter,  and  from  heat  a shade. 
All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  frauds 
shall  fail ; 

Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale, 

Peace  o’er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven  de- 
scend. 

Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected 
mom! 

0 spring  to  light ! auspicious  babe,  be  born ! 
See,  nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to 
bring, 

With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring ! 
See  lofty  Lebanon  his  head  advance ; 

See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance ; 
See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise, 

And  Carmel’s  flowery  top  perfumes  the  skies! 
Hark ! a glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers : 
Prepare  the  way ! a God,  a God  appears ! 

A God,  a God ! the  vocal  hills  reply — 

The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 
Lo,  earth  receives  Him  from  the  bending 
skies ! 

Sink  down,  ye  mountains;  and  ye  valleys, 
rise! 

With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay ! 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks ; ye  rapid  floods,  give 
way! 

The  Saviour  comes ! by  ancient  bards  fore- 
told— 

Hear  Him,  ye  deaf ; and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 


He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visua. 
ray, 

And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day ; 

’T  is  He  th’  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall 
clear, 

And  bid  new  music  charm  th’  unfolding  ear ; 
The  dumb  shall  sing;  the  lame  his  crutch 
forego, 

And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe. 

No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall 
hear — 

From  every  face  He  wipes  off  every  tear. 

In  adamantine  chains  shall  Death  be  bound, 
And  hell’s  grim  tyrant  feel  th’  eternal  wound. 
As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air, 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  di- 
rects, 

By  day  o’ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects ; 
The  tender  lambs  He  raises  in  His  arms — 
Feeds  from  His  hand,  and  in  His  bosom 
warms: 

Thus  shall  mankind  His  guardian  care  en- 
gage— 

The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 

No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 

Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes ; 
Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o’er, 
The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more ; 
But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
And  the  broad  falchion  in  a plough-share  end. 
Then  palaces  shall  rise ; the  joyful  son 
Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun ; 
Their  vines  a shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that  sowed  shall  reap  the 
field; 

The  swain  in  barren  deserts  with  surprise 
Sees  lilies  spring  and  sudden  verdure  rise ; 
And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds,  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 

On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon’s  late  abodes, 

The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush 
nods; 

Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplexed  with 
thorn, 

The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn ; 

To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowery  palms  succeed, 
And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed ; 
The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  ver 
dant  mead, 

And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead ; 


CHRIST’S  MESSAGE. 


The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 
And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim’s  feet. 
The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake — 
Pleased,  the  green  lustre  of  the  scales  survey, 
And  with  their  forked  tongue  shall  innocently 
play. 

Rise,  crowned  with  light,  imperial  Salem, 
rise! 

Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes ! 

See  a long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn ; 
See  future  sons,  and  daughters  yet  unborn, 

In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 
Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies ! 

See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 
Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend ; 
See  thy  bright  altars  thronged  with  prostrate 
kings, 

And  heaped  with  products  of  Sabean  springs ! 
For  Thee  Idume’s  spicy  forests  blow, 

And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir’s  mountains  glow. 
See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  dis- 
play, 

And  break  upon  thee  in  a flood  of  day ! 

Ho  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 
Nor  evening  Cynthia  fill  her  silver  horn ; 

But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 

One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze, 
O’erflow  thy  courts ; the  Light  Himself  shall 
shine 

Revealed,  and  God’s  eternal  day  be  thine ! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  de- 
cay, 

Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away ; 
But  fixed  His  word,  His  saving  power  re- 
mains ; • 

Thy  realm  for  ever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah 
reigns ! 

Alexander  Pope. 


TWELFTH  DAY,  OR  THE  EPIPHANY. 

That  so  Thy  blessed  birth,  O Christ, 
Might  through  the  world  be  spread  about, 
Thy  star  appeared  in  the  East, 

Whereby  the  Gentiles  found  Thee  out ; 
And  offering  Thee  myrrh,  incense,  gold, 
Thy  three-fold  office  did  unfold. 


1 27 

Sweet  Jesus,  let  that  star  of  Thine — 

Thy  grace,  which  guides  to  find  out  Thee — 
Within  our  hearts  for  ever  shine, 

That  Thou  of  us  found  out  may’st  be ; 

And  Thou  shalt  be  our  King  therefore, 

Our  Priest  and  Prophet  evermore. 

Tears  that  from  true  repentance  drop, 
Instead  of  myrrh,  present  will  we ; 

For  incense  we  will  offer  up 
Our  prayers  and  praises  unto  Thee ; 

And  bring  for  gold  each  pious  deed 
Which  doth  from  saving  grace  proceed. 

And  as  those  wise  men  never  went 
To  visit  Herod  any  more ; 

So,  finding  Thee,  we  will  repent 
Our  courses  followed  heretofore ; 

And  that  we  homeward  may  retire 
The  way  by  Thee  we  will  inquire. 

George  Wither. 


CHRIST’S  MESSAGE. 

Haek  the  glad  sound — the  Saviour  comes ! 
The  Saviour  promised  long ! 

Let  every  heart  prepare  a throne, 

And  every  voice  a song. 

On  Him  the  spirit,  largely  poured, 

Exerts  its  sacred  fire ; 

Wisdom  and  might,  and  zeal  and  love, 

His  holy  breast  inspire. 

He  comes  the  prisoners  to  release, 

In  Satan’s  bondage  held ; 

The  gates  of  brass  before  Him  burst, 

The  iron  fetters  yield. 

He  comes  from  thickest  films  of  vice 
To  clear  the  mental  ray, 

And  on  the  eyeballs  of  the  blind 
To  pour  celestial  day. 

He  comes  the  broken  heart  to  bind, 

The  bleeding  soul  to  cure, 

And  with  the  treasures  of  His  grace 
To  enrich  the  humble  poor. 


728 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


His  silver  trumpets  publish  loud 
The  jubilee  of  the  Lord ; 

Our  debts  are  all  remitted  now, 
Our  heritage  restored. 


Our  glad  Hosannas,  Prince  of  Peace, 

Thy  welcome  shall  proclaim ; 

And  heaven’s  eternal  arches  ring 
With  Thy  beloved  name ! . 

Philip  Doddbidge. 


LINES 

ON  THE  CELEBRATED  PICTURE  BY  LEONARDO  DA 
VINCI,  CALLED  THE  VIRGIN  OF  THE  ROCKS. 

While  young  John  runs  to  greet 
The  greater  infant’s  feet, 

The  mother  standing  by,  with  trembling 
passion 

Of  devout  admiration, 

Beholds  the  engaging  mystic  play,  and 
pretty  adoration ; 

Nor  knows  as  yet  the  full  event 
Of  those  so  low  beginnings 
Prom  whence  we  date  our  winnings, 

But  wonders  at  the  intent 
Of  those  new  rites,  and  what  that  strange 
child-worship  meant. 

But  at  her  side 
An  angel  doth  abide, 

With  such  a perfect  joy 
As  no  dim  doubts  alloy — 

An  intuition, 

A glory,  an  amenity, 

Passing  the  dark  condition 
Of  blind  humanity, 

As  if  he  surely  knew 

All  the  blest  wonders  should  ensue, 

Or  he  had  lately  left  the  upper  sphere, 
And  had  read  all  the  sovereign  schemes 
and  divine  riddles  there. 

Chakles  Lamb. 


THE  REIGN  OF  CHRIST  ON  EARTH, 

Hail  to  the  Lord’s  annointed— 

Great  David’s  greater  Son! 

Hail,  in  the  time  appointed, 

His  reign  on  earth  begun ! 

He  comes  to  break  oppression, 

To  set  the  captive  free, 

To  take  away  transgression, 

And  rule  in  equity. 

He  comes  with  succor  speedy 
To  those  who  suffer  wrong ; 

To  help  the  poor  and  needy, 

And  bid  the  weak  be  strong ; 

To  give  them  songs  for  sighing, 

Their  darkness  turn  to  light, 

Whose  souls,  condemned  and  dying, 
Were  precious  in  His  sight. 

By  such  shall  He  be  feared 
While  sun  and  moon  endure — 
Beloved,  obeyed,  revered ; 

For  He  shall  judge  the  poor, 
Through  changing  generations, 

With  justice,  mercy,  truth, 

While  stars  maintain  their  stations 
Or  moons  renew  their  youth. 

He  shall  come  down  like  showers 
Upon  the  fruitful  earth, 

And  love,  joy,  hope,  like  flowers, 
Spring  in  His  path  to  birth ; 

Before  Him,  on  the  mountains, 

Shall  Peace,  the  herald,  go, 

Anlfl.  Righteousness,  in  fountains, 

From  hill  to  valley  flow. 

Arabia’s  desert-ranger 
To  Him  shall  bow  the  knee, 

The  Ethiopian  stranger 
His  glory  come  to  see ; 

With  offerings  of  devotion 
Ships  from  the  isles  shall  meet, 

To  pour  the  wealth  of  ocean 
In  tribute  at  His  feet. 

Kings  shall  fall  down  before  Him, 

And  gold  and  incense  bring  • 

All  nations  shall  adore  Him, 

His  praise  all  people  sing; 


GETHSEMANE. 


729 


For  He  shall  have  dominion 
O’er  river,  sea,  and  shore, 

Far  as  the  eagle’s  pinion 

Or  dove’s  light  wing  can  soar. 

For  Him  shall  prayer  unceasing, 

And  daily  vows,  ascend — 

His  kingdom  still  increasing, 

A kingdom  without  end ; 

The  mountain-dews  shall  nourish 
A seed  in  weakness  sown, 

Whose  fruit  shall  spread  and  flourish, 
And  shake  like  Lebanon. 

O’er  every  foe  victorious, 

He  on  His  throne  shall  rest, 

From  age  to  age  more  glorious, 
All-blessing  and  all-blest ; 

The  tide  of  time  shall  never 
His  covenant  remove ; 

His  name  shall  stand  for  ever ; 

That  name  to  us  is — Love. 

James  Montgomery. 


PASSION  SUNDAY. 

The  royal  banners  forward  go ; 

The  cross  shines  forth  in  mystic  glow ; 
Where  He  in  flesh,  our  flesh  who  made, 
Our  sentence  bore,  our  ransom  paid — 

Where  deep  for  us  the  spear  was  dyed, 
Life’s  torrent  rushing  from  His  side, 

To  wash  us  in  that  precious  flood 
Where  mingled  water  flowed  and  blood. 

Fulfilled  is  all  that  David  told 
In  true  prophetic  song  of  old : 

Amidst  the  nations,  God,  saith  he, 

Llath  reigned  and  triumphed  from  the  tree. 

0 tree  of  beauty,  tree  of  light ! 

O tree  with  royal  purple  dight ! 

Elect  on  whose  triumphal  breast 
Those  holy  limbs  should  find  their  rest  I 

On  whose  dear  arms,  so  widely  flung, 

The  weight  of  this  world’s  ransom  hung — 
The  price  of  human  kind  to  pay, 

And  spoil  the  spoiler  of  his  prey ! 


To  Thee,  eternal  Three  in  One, 

Let  homage  meet  by  all  be  done, 

WThom  by  the  cross  Thou  dost  restore, 
Preserve  and  govern  evermore.  Amen. 

Venantius  Fortunatus  (Latin). 
Anonymous  Translation. 


GETHSEMANE. 

Jesus,  while  He  dwelt  below, 

As  divine  historians  say, 

To  a place  would  often  go — 

Near  to  Kedron’s  brook  it  lay ; 

In  this  place  He  loved  to  be, 

And  ’twas  named  Gethsemane. 

’T  was  a garden,  as  we  read, 

At  the  foot  of  Olivet — 

Low,  and  proper  to  be  made 
The  Redeemer’s  lone  retreat ; 

When  from  noise  he  would  be  free, 
Then  He  sought  Gethsemane. 

Thither,  by  their  Master  brought, 

His  disciples  likewise  came  ; 

There  the  heavenly  truths  He  taught 
Often  set  their  hearts  on  flame ; 
Therefore  they,  as  well  as  He, 

Visited  Gethsemane. 

Oft  conversing  here  they  sat, 

Or  might  join  with  Christ  in  prayer ; 
0 ! what  blest  devotion  that, 

When  the  Lord  Himself  is  there ! 

All  things  thus  did  there  agree 
To  endear  Gethsemane. 

Full  of  love  to  man’s  lost  race, 

On  the  conflict  much  He  thought ; 
This  He  knew  the  destined  place, 

And  He  loved  the  sacred  spot ; 
Therefore  Jesus  chose  to  be 
Often  in  Gethsemane. 

Came  at  length  the  dreadful  night  ; 

Vengeance,  with  its  iron  rod, 

Stood,  and  with  collected  might 
Bruised  the  harmless  Lamb  of  God ; 
See,  my  soul,  thy  Saviour  see, 

Prostrate  in  Gethsemane  1 


730 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


View  Him  in  that  olive  press. 

Wrung  with  anguish,  whelmed  with 
blood — 

Hear  Him  pray  in  His  distress, 

With  strong  cries  and  tears,  to  God : 
Then  reflect  what  sin  must  he, 

Gazing  on  Gethsemane. 

Gloomy  garden,  on  thy  beds, 

Washed  by  Kedron’s  water-pool, 

Grow  most  rank  and  hitter  weeds ! 

Think  on  these,  my  soul,  my  soul ! 
Wonld’st  thou  sin’s  dominion  see — 

Call  to  mind  Gethsemane. 

Eden,  from  each  flowery  bed, 

Did  for  man  short  sweetness  breathe ; 
Soon,  by  Satan’s  counsel  led, 

Man  wrought  sin,  and  sin  wrought  death ; 
But  of  Life  the  healing  Tree 
Grows  in  rich  Gethsemane. 

Hither,  Lord,  Thou  didst  resort 
Ofttimes  with  Thy  little  train ; 

Here  wouldst  keep  Thy  private  court — 

O ! confer  that  grace  again ; 

Lord,  resort  with  worthless  me, 

Oft-times  to  Gethsemane. 

True,  I can’t  deserve  to  share 
In  a favor  so  divine  ; 

But  since  sin  first  fixed  Thee  there 
Hone  have  greater  sins  than  mine ; 

And  to  this  my  woeful  plea 
Witness  thou,  Gethsemane ! 

Sins  against  a holy  God, 

Sins  against  His  righteous  laws, 

Sins  against  His  love,  His  blood, 

Sins  against  His  name  and  cause, 

Sins  immense  as  is  the  sea — 

Hide  me,  O Gethsemane ! 

Saviour,  all  the  stone  remove 
From  my  flinty,  frozen  heart ! 

Thaw  it  with  the  beams  of  love, 

Pierce  it  with  Thy  mercy's  dart! 

Wound  the  heart  that  wounded  Thee ! 
Break  it,  in  Gethsemane ! 

Joseph  Hast. 


GETHSEMANE. 

Go  to  dark  Gethsemane, 

Ye  that  feel  the  tempter’s  power; 
Your  Redeemer’s  conflict  see, 

Watch  with  Him  one  bitter  hour ; 
Turn  not  from  His  griefs  away — 

Learn  of  Jesus  Christ  to  pray ! 

Follow  to  the  judgment-hall — 

Yiew  the  Lord  of  Life  arraigned ! 

O the  wormwood  and  the  gall ! 

O the  pangs  His  soul  sustained ! 

Shun  not  suffering,  shame,  or  loss — 
Learn  of  Him  to  bear  the  cross ! 

Calvary’s  mournful  mountain  climb ; 

There,  adoring  at  His  feet, 

Mark  that  miracle  of  time — 

God’s  own  sacrifice  complete  ! 

“It  is  finished ! ” — hear  the  cry — 

Learn  of  Jesus  Christ  to  die. 

Early  hasten  to  the  tomb 

Where  they  laid  His  breathless  clay — 
All  is  solitude  and  gloom ; 

Who  hath  taken  Him  away  ? 

Christ  is  risen ! — He  meets  our  eyes ! 
Saviour,  teach  us  so  to  rise. 

James  Moxt60mebt. 


CHRIST  DYING,  RISING,  AND  REIGN 
ING. 

He  dies ! the  heavenly  Lover  dies ! 

The  tidings  strike  a doleful  sound 
On  my  poor  heart-strings ; deep  he  lies 
In  the  cold  caverns  of  the  ground. 

Come,  saints,  and  drop  a tear  or  two 
On  the  dear  bosom  of  your  God ! 

He  shed  a thousand  drops  for  you, 

A thousand  drops  of  richer  blood. 

Here ’s  love  and  grief  beyond  degree — 
The  Lord  of  glory  dies  for  men ! 

But,  lo ! what  sudden  joys  I see ! 

Jesus,  the  dead,  revives  again ! 


J 


EASTER. 


731 


The  rising  God  forsakes  the  tomb — 

Up  to  His  Father’s  court  he  flies ; 
Cherubic  legions,  guard  Him  home, 

And  shout  Him  welcome  to  the  skies ! 

Break  off  your  tears,  ye  saints,  and  tell 
How  high  our  great  Deliverer  reigns — 
Sing  how  He  spoiled  the  hosts  of  hell, 

And  led  the  monster,  death,  in  chains ! 

Say,  “Live  for  ever,  wondrous  King — 
Born  to  redeem,  and  strong  to  save ! ” 
Then  ask  the  monster,  “Where ’s  his  sting? 
And  where ’s  thy  victory,  boasting 


WEEPING  MARY. 

Maby  to  her  Saviour’s  tomb 
Hasted  at  the  early  dawn ; 

Spice  she  brought,  and  rich  perfume — 
But  the  Lord  she  loved  was  gone. 

For  a while  she  weeping  stood, 

Struck  with  sorrow  and  surprise, 

Shedding  tears,  a plenteous  flood — 

For  her  heart  supplied  her  eyes. 

Jesus,  who  is  always  near, 

Though  too  often  unperceived, 

Comes  His  drooping  child  to  cheer, 
Kindly  asking  why  she  grieved. 

Though  at  first  she  knew  Him  not — 
When  He  called  her  by  her  name, 

Then  her  griefs  were  all  forgot, 

For  she  found  He  was  the  same. 

Grief  and  sighing  quickly  fled 

When  she  heard  His  welcome  voice ; 

Just  before  she  thought  Him  dead, 
Now  He  bids  her  heart  rejoice. 

What  a change  His  word  can  make, 
Turning  darkness  into  day  ! 

You  who  weep  for  Jesus’  sake, 

He  will  wipe  your  tears  away. 

He  who  came  to  comfort  her 

When  she  thought  her  all  was  lost, 

Will  for  your  relief  appear, 

Though  you  now  are  tempest-tossed. 


On  His  word  your  burden  cast, 

On  His  love  your  thoughts  employ ; 
Weeping  for  a while  may  last, 

But  the  morning  brings  the  joy. 

John  Newton. 


EASTER. 

Rise,  heart!  thy  Lord  is  risen.  Sing  His 
praise 

Without  delays 

Who  takes  thee  by  the  hand,  that  thou  like- 
wise 

With  Him  may  ’st  rise — 
That,  as  His  death  calcined  thee  to  dust, 

His  life  may  make  thee  gold,  and  much  more 
just. 

Awake,  my  lute,  and  struggle  for  thy  part 
With  all  thy  art ! 

The  crosse  taught  all  wood  to  resound  His  name 
Who  bore  the  same ; 

His  stretched  sinews  taught  all  strings  what 
key 

Is  best  to  celebrate  this  most  high  day. 

Consort  both  harp  and  lute,  and  twist  a song 
Pleasant  and  long ! 

Or  since  all  music  is  but  three  parts  vied 
And  multiplied, 

0 let  Thy  blessed  Spirit  bear  a part, 

And  make  up  our  defects  with  His  sweet  art. 

1 got  me  flowers  to  strew  Thy  way — 

I got  me  boughs  off  many  a tree  ; 

But  thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 

And  broughtst  thy  sweets  along  with  thee. 

The  sun  arising  in  the  east, 

Though  he  give  light,  and  th’  east  perfume, 
If  they  should  offer  to  contest 
With  Thy  arising,  they  presume. 

Can  there  be  any  day  but  this, 

Though  many  suns  to  shine  endeavour  ? 

We  count  three  hundred,  Jbut  we  miss — 
There  is  but  one,  and  that  one  ever. 

George  Herbert. 


732 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


•AN  EASTER  HYMN. 

Awake,  thou  wintry  earth — 

Fling  off  thy  sadness  ! 

Fair  vernal  flowers,  laugh  forth 
Your  ancient  gladness ! 

Christ  is  risen ! 

"Wave,  woods,  your  blossoms  all — 
Grim  death  is  dead ! 

Ye  weeping  funeral  trees, 

Lift  up  your  head ! 

Christ  is  risen ! 

Come,  see ! the  graves  are  green ; 

It  is  light ; let ’s  go 

Where  our  loved  ones  rest 
In  hope  below ! 

Christ  is  risen ! 

All  is  fresh  and  new, 

Full  of  spring  and  light ; 

Wintry  heart,  why  wear’st  the  hue 
Of  sleep  and  night  ? 

Christ  is  risen ! 

Leave  thy  cares  beneath, 

Leave  thy  worldly  love ! 

Begin  the  better  life 
With  God  above ! 

Christ  is  risen ! 

Thomas  Blackburn. 


HYMN. 

Fbom  my  lips  in  their  defilement, 

From  my  heart  in  its  beguilement, 
From  my  tongue  which  speaks  not  fair, 
From  my  soul  stained  every  where — 

O my  Jesus,  take  my  prayer  ! 

Spurn  me  not,  for  all  it  says, — 

Not  for  words,  and  not  for  ways, — 

Not  for  shamelessness  endued ! 

Make  me  brave  to  speak  my  mood, 

O my  Jesus,  as  \ would ! 

Or  teach  me,  which  I rather  seek, 

What  to  do  and  what  to  speak. 


I have  sinned  more  than  she 
Who,  learning  where  to  meet  with  Thee, 
And  bringing  myrrh  the  highest  priced, 
Anointed  bravely,  from  her  knee, 

Thy  blessed  feet  accordingly — 

My  God,  my  Lord,  my  Christ ! 

As  Thou  saidest  not  “ Depart,” 

To  that  suppliant  from  her  heart, 

Scorn  me  not,  O Word,  that  art 
The  gentlest  one  of  all  words  said! 

But  give  Thy  feet  to  me  instead, 

That  tenderly  I may  them  kiss, 

And  clasp  them  close,  and  never  miss. 
With  over-dropping  tears,  as  free 
And  precious  as  that  myrrh  could  be, 

T’  anoint  them  bravely  from  my  knee  ! 

Wash  me  with  thy  tears!  draw  nigh  me, 
That  their  salt  may  purify  me ! 

Thou  remit  my  sins  who  knowest 
All  the  sinning,  to  the  lowest — 

Knowest  all  my  wounds,  and  seest 
All  the  stripes  Thyself  decreest ; 

Yea,  hut  knowest  all  my  faith  - 
Seest  all  my  force  to  death, — 

Hearest  all  my  wailings  low 
That  mine  evil  should  be  so ! 

Nothing  hidden  but  appears 
In  Thy  knowledge,  0 Divine, 

O Creator,  Saviour  mine ! — 

Not  a drop  of  falling  tears, 

Not  a breath  of  inward  moan, 

Not  a heart-beat — which  is  gone ! 

St.  Joannes  Damascenes.  (Greek.') 
Translation  of  E.  B.  Browning. 


MY  GOD,  I LOVE  THEE. 

My  God,  I love  Thee ! not  because 
I hope  for  heaven  thereby ; 

Nor  because  those  who  love  Thee  not 
Must  burn  eternally. 

Thou,  0 my  Jesus,  Thou  didst  me 
Upon  the  cross  embrace ! 

For  me  didst  hear  the  nails  and  spear, 
And  manifold  disgrace. 


THE  CALL. 


733 


And  griefs  and  torments  numberless, 

And  sweat  of  agony, 

Yea,  death  itself — and  all  for  one 
That  was  Thine  enemy. 

Then  why,  O blessed  Jesus  Christ, 

Should  I not  love  Thee  well? 

Not  for  the  hope  of  winning  heaven, 

Nor  of  escaping  hell ! 

Not  with  the  hope  of  gaining  aught, 

Not  seeking  a reward; 

But  as  Thyself  hast  loved  me, 

O everlasting  Lord ! 

E’en  so  I love  Thee,  and  will  love, 

And  in  Thy  praise  will  sing — 

Solely  because  thou  art  my  God, 

And  my  eternal  King. 

St.  Francis  Xavier.  (Latin.) 

Translation  of  Edward  Caswell. 


I THE  STRANGER  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

I 

A poor  wayfaring  man  of  grief 
Hath  often  crossed  me  on  my  way, 

Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief 
That  I could  never  answer  “ Nay.” 

I had  not  power  to  ask  His  name, 

Whither  He  went,  or  whence  He  came ; 
Yet  there  was  something  in  His  eye 
That  won  my  love, — I knew  not  why. 

Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  entered.  Not  a word  He  spake. 

Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread, 

I gave  Him  all ; He  blessed  it,  brake, 
And  ate ; — but  gave  me  part  again. 

Mine  was  an  angel’s  portion  then  ; 

For  while  I fed  with  eager  haste, 

That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 

I spied  Him  where  a fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ; His  strength  was 
gone; 

The  heedless  water  mocked  His  thirst ; 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on. 


I ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up  ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  He  drained  my  cup, 
Dipped,  and  returned  it  running  o’er ; — 

I drank  and  never  thirsted  more. 

’T  was  night ; the  floods  were  out, — it  blew 
A winter  hurricane  aloof ; 

I heard  His  voice  abroad,  and  flew 
To  bid  Him  welcome  to  my  roof ; 

I warmed,  I clothed,  I cheered  my  guest — 
Laid  Him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 

Then  made  the  earth  my  bed,  and  seemed 
In  Eden’s  garden  while  I dreamed. 

Stripped,  wounded,  beaten  nigh  to  death, 

I found  Him  by  the  highway  side ; 

I roused  His  pulse,  brought  back  His  breath, 
Revived  His  spirit,  and  supplied 
Wine,  oil,  refreshment ; He  was  healed. 

I had,  myself,  a wound  concealed — 

But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart, 

And  peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I saw  Him  next,  condemned 
To  meet  a traitor’s  doom  at  morn ; 

The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I stemmed, 

And  honored  Him  midst  shame  and  scorn. 
My  friendship’s  utmost  zeal  to  try, 

He  asked  if  I for  Him  would  die ; 

The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill, 

But  the  free  spirit  cried,  “ I will.” 

Then  in  a moment,  to  my  view, 

The  stranger  darted  from  disguise ; 

The  tokens  in  His  hands  I knew — 

My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes. 

He  spake ; and  my  poor  name  he  named — 

“ Of  Me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed ; 

These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 

Fear  not ! thou  didst  them  unto* Me.” 

James  Montgomery. 


THE  CALL. 

Come,  my  Way,  my  Truth,  my  Life ! — 
Such  a Way  as  gives  us  breath ; 

Such  a Truth  as  ends  all  strife ; 

Such  a Life  as  killeth  death. 


734 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Come,  my  Light,  my  Feast,  my  Strength ! — 
Such  a Light  as  shows  a feast ; 

Such  a Feast  as  mends  in  length ; 

Such  a Strength  as  makes  His  guest. 

Come,  my  Joy,  my  Love,  my  Heart ! 

Such  a Joy  as  none  can  move ; 

Such  a Love  as  none  can  part ; 

Such  a Heart  as  joys  in  love. 

Geobge  Herbebt. 


THE  ODOR. 

How  sweetly  doth  My  Master  sound! — My 
Master ! 

As  ambergris  leaves  a rich  scent 
Unto  the  taster, 

So  do  these  words  a sweet  content, 

An  oriental  fragrancy — My  Master ! 

With  these  all  day  I do  perfume  my  mind, 
My  mind  even  thrust  into  them  both — 
That  I might  find 

What  cordials  make  this  curious  broth, 
This  broth  of  smells,  that  feeds  and  fats  my 
mind. 

My  Master,  shall  I speak  ? O that  to  Thee 
My  servant  were  a little  so 
As  flesh  may  be ! 

That  these  two  words  might  creep  and 
grow 

To  some  degree  of  spiciness  to  Thee ! 

Then  should  the  pomander,  which  was  before 
A speaking  sweet,  mend  by  reflection, 
And  tell  me  more ; 

For  pardon  of  my  imperfection 
Would  warm  and  work  it  sweeter  than  before. 

For  when  My  Master,  which  alone  is  sweet, 
And  ev’n  in  my  unworthiness  pleasing, 
Shall  call  and  meet 
My  servant,  as  Thee  not  displeasing, 
ThatjCall  is  but  the  breathing  of  the  sweet. 


This  breathing  would  with  gains,  by  sweet- 
ning  me, 

(As  sweet  things  traffick  when  they  meet) 
Return  to  Thee ; 

And  so  this  new  commerce  and  sweet 
Should  all  my  life  employ,  and  busy  me. 

Geobge  Hebbebt. 


THE  FEAST. 

0 come  away ! 

Make  no  delay — 

Come  while  my  heart  is  clean  and  steady ! 
While  faith  and  grace 
Adorn  the  place, 

Making  dust  and  ashes  ready ! 

No  bliss  here  lent 
Is  permanent — 

Such  triumphs  poor  flesh  cannot  merit ; 
Short  sips  and  sights 
Endear  delights ; 

Who  seeks  for  more  he  would  inherit. 

Come  then,  true  bread, 

Quickning  the  dead, 

Whose  eater  shall  not,  cannot  dye ! 

Come,  antedate 
On  me  that  state 

Which  brings  poor  dust  the  victory  !— 

Aye,  victory! 

Which  from  Thine  eye 
Breaks  as  the  day  doth  from  the  east, 
When  the  spilt  dew, 

Like  tears,  doth  shew 
The  sad  world  wept  to  he  releast. 

Spring  up,  0 wine ! 

And  springing  shine 
With  some  glad  message  from  His  heart, 
Who  did,  when  slain, 

These  means  ordain 
For  me  to  have  in  Him  a part ! — 

Such  a sure  part 
In  His  blest  heart, 

The  well  where  living  waters  spring. 

That,  with  it  fed, 

Poor  dust,  though  dead, 

Shall  rise  again,  and  live,  and  sing. 


SONNETS. 


735 


0 drink  and  bread, 

Which  strikes  death  dead, 

The  food  of  man’s  immortal  being ! 

Under  veils  here 
Thou  art  my  cheer, 

Present  and  sure  without  my  seeing. 

How  dost  Thou  fly, 

And  search  and  pry 
Through  all  my  parts,  and,  like  a quick 
And  knowing  lamp, 

Hunt  out  each  damp 
Whose  shadow  makes  me  sad  or  sick ! 

O what  high  joys! 

The  turtle’s  voice 

And  songs  I hear ! 0 quickning  showers 

Of  my  Lord’s  blood, 

You  make  rocks  bud, 

And  crown  dry  hills  with  wells  and  flowers ! 

For  this  true  ease, 

This  healing  peace, 

For  this  brief  taste  of  living  glory, 

My  soul  and  all, 

Kneel  down  and  fall, 

And  sing  His  sad  victorious  story ! 

O thorny  crown, 

More  soft  than  down ! 

O painful  cross,  my  bed  of  rest ! 

O spear,  the  key 
Opening  the  way ! 

0 Thy  worst  state  my  only  best ! 

O all  Thy  griefs 
Are  my  reliefs, 

As  all  my  sins  Thy  sorrows  were ! 

And  what  can  I 
To  this  reply? 

WLat,  O God ! but  a silent  tear  ? 

Some  toil  and  sow 
That  wealth  may  flow, 

And  dress  this  earth  for  next  year’s  meat : 
But  let  me  heed 
Why  thou  didsted, 

And  what  in  the  next  world  to  eat. 


COMPLAINING. 

Do  not  beguile  my  heart, 

Because  Thou  art 

My  power  and  wisdom!  Put  me  not  to  shame, 
Because  I am 

Thy  clay  that  sweeps,  Thy  dust  that  calls ! 

Thou  art  the  Lord  of  Glory — 

The  deed  and  story 
Are  both  Thy  due ; but  I a silly  fly, 

That  live  or  die 

According  as  the  weather  falls. 

Art  Thou  all  justice,  Lord  ? 

Shows  not  Thy  word 
More  attributes  ? Am  I all  throat  or  eye, 

To  weep  or  cry  ? 

Have  I no  parts  but  those  of  grief? 

Let  not  Thy  wrathful  power 
Afflict  my  hour, 

My  inch  of  life ; or  let  Thy  gracious  power 
Contract  my  hour, 

That  I may  climb  and  find  relief. 

George  Herbert. 


SONNETS. 

How  orient  is  Thy  beauty ! How  divine ! 
How  dark ’s  the  glory  of  the  earth  to  Thine ! 
Thy  veiled  eyes  outshine  heaven’s  greater  light, 
Unconquered  by  the  shady  cloud  of  night ; 
Thy  curious  tresses  dangle,  all  unbound, 

With  unaffected  order  to  the  ground ; 

How  orient  is  Thy  beauty ! How  divine ! 
How  dark ’s  the  glory  of  the  earth  to  Thine ! 

Nor  myrrh,  nor  cassia,  nor  the  choice  per- 
fumes 

Of  unctious  nard,  or  aromatic  fumes 
Of  hot  Arabia,  do  enrich  the  air 
With  more  delicious  sweetness  than  the  fair 
Reports  that  crown  the  merits  of  Thy  Name 
With  heavenly  laurels  of  eternal  fame, 

Which  makes  the  virgins  fix  their  eyes  upon 
Thee, 

And  all  that  view  Thee  are  enamored  on  Thee. 


Henry  Vaughan. 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


; *736 

1 

| Who  ever  smelt  the  breath  of  morning  flow- 
j ers 

New  sweetened  with  the  dash  of  twilight 
showers, 

Of  pounded  amber,  or  the  flowing  thyme, 

Or  purple  violets  in  their  proudest  prime, 

Or  swelling  clusters  from  the  cypress  tree  ? 

So  sweet ’s  my  love ; aye,  far  more  sweet  is 
He— 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  that  Heaven’s  bright  eye  is 
dim, 

And  flowers  have  no  scent,  compared  with 
Him. 

Fbancis  Qtjables. 


THE  FLOWER. 

How  fresh,  O Lord,  how  sweet  and  clean 
Are  thy  returns!  e’en  as  the  flowers  in 
Spring — 

To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 
The  late-past  frosts  tributes  of  pleasure  bring. 
Grief  melts  away 
Like  snow  in  May, 

As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thing. 

Who  would  have  thought  my  shrivelled 
heart 

Could  have  recovered  greenness  ? It  was  gone 
Quite  under  ground ; as  flowers  depart 
To  see  their  mother-root  when  they  have 
blown, 

Where  they  together, 

All  the  hard  weather, 

Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  unknown. 

These  are  Thy  wonders,  Lord  of  power: 
Killing  and  quickning,  bringing  down  to  hell 
And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour, 

Making  a chiming  of  a passing-bell. 

We  say  amiss, 

This  or  that  is — 

Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  could  spell. 

O that  I once  past  changing  were — 

Fast  in  Thy  paradise,  where  no  flower  can 
wither ! 

Many  a Spring  I shoot  up  fair, 

Offering  at  heaven,  growing  and  groaning 
thither ; 


Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a spring-shower, 

My  sins  and  I joining  together. 

But,  while  I grow  in  a straight  line, 

Still  upwards  bent,  as  if  heaven  were  mine 
own, 

Thy  anger  comes,  and  I decline ; 

What  frost  to  that?  what  pole  is  not  the 
zone 

Where  all  things  burn, 

When  Thou  dost  turn 
And  the  least  frown  of  Thine  is  shown  ? 

And  now  in  age  I hud  again — 

After  so  many  deaths  I live  and  write ; 

I once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain. 

And  relish  versing ; O my  only  Light, 

It  cannot  he 
That  I am  he 

On  whom  Thy  tempests  fell  all  night ! 

These  are  Thy  wonders,  Lord  of  love — 
To  make  us  see  we  are  hut  flowers  that 
glide; 

Which  when  we  once  can  find  and 
prove, 

Thou  hast  a garden  for  us  where  to  hide. 
Who  would  he  more, 

Swelling  through  store, 

Forfeit  their  paradise  by  their  pride. 

Geobge  Hebbebt. 


A PRAYER  LIVING  AND  DYING. 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee ! 

Let  the  water  and  the  blood, 

From  Thy  riven  side  which  flowed, 
Be  of  sin  the  double  cure — 

Cleanse  me  from  its  guilt  and  power. 

Not  the  labors  of  my  hands 
Can  fulfil  Thy  law’s  demands ; 

Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know, 

Could  my  tears  for  ever  flow, 

All  for  sin  could  not  atone — 

Thou  must  save,  and  Thou  alone. 


COME  UNTO  ME. 


737 


Nothing  in  my  hand  I bring — 

Simply  to  Thy  cross  I cling ; 

Naked  come  to  Thee  for  dress — 
Helpless  look  to  Thee  for  grace ; 

Foul,  I to  the  fountain  fly — 

Wash  me,  Saviour,  or  I die. 

While  I draw  this  fleeting  breath, 
When  my  eye-strings  break  in  death, 
When  I soar  to  worlds  unknown, 

See  Thee  on  Thy  judgment  throne, 
Eock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee ! 

Augustus  Montague  Toplady. 


JESUS. 

None  upon  earth  I desire  beside  Thee. 

Psalm  lxxiii.  25. 

How  tedious  and  tasteless  the  hours 
When  Jesus  no  longer  I see ! 

Sweet  prospects,  sweet  birds,  and  sweet 
flowers, 

Have  lost  all  their  sweetness  with  me ; 

The  midsummer  sun  shines  but  dim, 

The  fields  strive  in  vain  to  look  gay ; 

But  when  I am  happy  in  Him, 

December’s  as  pleasant  as  Hay. 

His  name  yields  the  richest  perfume, 

And  sweeter  than  music  His  voice ; 

His  presence  disperses  my  gloom, 

And  makes  all  within  me  rejoice ; 

I should,  were  He  always  thus  nigh, 

Have  nothing  to  wish  or  to  fear ; 

No  mortal  so  happy  as  I — 

My  Summer  would  last  all  the  year. 

Content  with  beholding  His  face, 

My  all  to  His  pleasure  resigned, 

No  changes  of  season  or  place 
Would  make  any  change  in  my  mind; 
While  blest  with  a sense  of  His  love 
A palace  a toy  would  appear ; 

And  prisons  would  palaces  prove, 

If  Jesus  wTould  dwell  with  me  there. 

47 


Dear  Lord,  if  indeed  I am  Thine, 

If  Thou  art  my  sun  and  my  song — 

Say,  why  do  I languish  and  pine, 

And  why  are  my  Winters  so  long  ? 

O drive  these  dark  clouds  from  my  sky, 
Thy  soul-cheering  presence  restore ; 

Or  take  me  unto  Thee  on  high, 

Where  Winter  and  clouds  are  no  more. 

John  Newton. 


THE  EXAMPLE  OF  CHEIST. 

My  dear  Eedeemer,  and  my  God, 

I read  my  duty  in  Thy  word ; 

But  in  Thy  life  the  law  appears 
Drawn  out  in  living  characters. 

Such  was  Thy  truth,  and  such  Thy  zeal, 
Such  deference  to  Thy  Father’s  will, 

Such  love,  and  meekness  so  divine, 

I would  transcribe,  and  make  them  mine. 

Cold  mountains,  and  the  midnight  air, 
Witnessed  the  fervor  of  Thy  prayer ; 

The  desert  Thy  temptations  knew — 

Thy  conflict,  and  Thy  victory  too. 

Be  Thou  my  pattern ; make  me  bear 
More  of  Thy  gracious  image  here ; 

Then  God,  the  Judge,  shall  own  my  name 
Amongst  the  followers  of  the  Lamb. 

Isaac  Watts. 


“ COME  UNTO  ME.” 

“ Come  unto  me  all  ye  that  are  weary  and  heavy  laden, 
and  I will  give  you  rest.” 

Come,  said  Jesus’  sacred  voice — 

Come  and  make  my  paths  your  choice ! 

I will  guide  you  to  your  home — 

Weary  pijgrim,  hither  come! 

Thou  who,  houseless,  sole,  forlorn, 

Long  hast  borne  the  proud  world’s  scorn, 
Long  hast  roamed  the  barren  waste, 

Weary  pilgrim,  hither  haste  I 


738 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Ye  who,  tossed  on  beds  of  pain, 

Seek  for  ease,  but  seek  in  vain — 

Ye  whose  swollen  and  sleepless  eyes 
Watch  to  see  the  morning  rise — 

Ye  by  fiercer  anguish  torn, 

In  strong  remorse  for  guilt  who  mourn, 
Here  repose  your  heavy  care — 

A wounded  spirit  who  can  hear ! 

Sinner,  come ! for  here  is  found 
Balm  that  flows  from  every  wound — 
Peace,  that  ever  shall  endure — 

Best  eternal,  sacred,  sure. 

Anna  Letitia  Barbauld. 


THE  WATCHMAN’S  EEPOKT. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night — 

What  its  signs  of  promise  are ! 

Traveller,  o’er  yon  mountain’s  height 
See  that  glory-beaming  star ! 

Watchman,  does  its  beauteous  ray  . 
Aught  of  hope  or  joy  foretell? 

Traveller,  yes ; it  brings  the  day — 
Promised  day  of  Israel. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night — 

Higher  yet  that  Star  ascends ! 

Traveller,  blessedness  and  light, 

Peace  and  truth,  its  course  portends. 

Watchman,  will  its  beams  alone 
Gild  the  spot  that  gave  them  birth  ? 

Traveller,  ages  are  its  own — 

See,  it  bursts  o’er  all  the  earth. 

Watchman,  tell  us  of  the  night, 

For  the  morning  seems  to  dawn. 

Traveller,  darkness  takes  its  flight — 
Doubt  and  terror  are  withdrawn. 

Watchman,  let  thy  wandering  cease ; 

Hie  thee  to  thy  quiet  home. 

Traveller,  lo ! the  Prince  of  Pe#ce — 

Lo ! the  Son  of  God  is  come. 

John  Bowring. 


“JESUS,  LOVER  OF  MY  SOUL.” 

Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 

While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high ! 

Hide  me,  O my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past : 

Safe  into  Thy  haven  guide — 

0 receive  my  soul  at  last ! 

Other  refuge  have  I none — 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee ; 
Leave,  ah ! leave  me  not  alone — 

Still  support  and  comfort  me. 

All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stayed, 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I bring : 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 
With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. 

Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  call  ? 

Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  prayer  ? 
Lo ! I sink,  I faint,  I fall — 

Lo ! on  Thee  I cast  my  care ; 

Reach  me  out  Thy  gracious  hand, 
While  I of  Thy  strength  receive ! 
Hoping  against  hope  I stand— 

Dying,  and  behold  I live. 

Thou,  O Christ,  art  all  I want — 

More  than  all  in  Thee  I find ; 

Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 

Heal  the  sick,  and  lead  the  blind. 
Just  and' holy  is  Thy  name — 

1 am  all  unrighteousness ; 

False,  and  full  of  sin  I am : — 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  Thee  is  found, — 
Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 

Let  the  healing  streams  abound — 
Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 
Thou  of  life  the  fountain  art — 

Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee  ; 

Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart — 
Rise  to  all  eternity. 

Charles  Wesley. 


ETERNAL  BEAM  OF  LIGHT  DIVINE. 


“JESUS,  MY  STRENGTH,  MY  HOPE.” 

Jesus,  my  strength,  my  hope, 

On  Thee  I cast  my  care — 

With  humble  confidence  look  up, 

And  know  Thou  hear’st  my  prayer. 
Give  me  on  Thee  to  wait 
Till  I can  all  things  do — 

On  Thee,  almighty  to  create, 

Almighty  to  renew. 

I want  a sober  mind, 

A self-renouncing  will 
That  tramples  down,  and  casts  behind, 
The  baits  of  pleasing  ill — 

A soul  inured  to  pain, 

To  hardship,  grief,  and  loss — 

Bold  to  take  up,  firm  to  sustain, 

The  consecrated  cross. 

I want  a godly  fear, 

A quick  discerning  eye, 

That  looks  to  Thee  when  sin  is  near, 
And  sees  the  tempter  fly — 

A spirit  still  prepared, 

And  armed  with  jealous  care — 
Forever  standing  on  its  guard, 

And  watching  unto  prayer. 

I want  a heart  to  pray, — 

To  pray,  and  never  cease ; 

Never  to  murmur  at  Thy  stay, 

Or  wish  my  sufferings  less. 

This  blessing  above  all, 

Always  to  pray,  I want, — 

Out  of  the  deep  on  Thee  to  call, 

And  never,  never  faint. 

I want  a true  regard — 

A single,  steady  aim 
(Unmoved  by  threatening  or  reward,) 
To  Thee  and  Thy  great  name — 

A jealous,  just  concern 
For  Thine  immortal  praise — 

A pure  desire  that  all  may  learn 
And  glorify  Thy  grace. 


739 

I rest  upon  Thy  word, — 

The  promise  is  for  me ; 

My  succor  and  salvation,  Lord, 

Shall  surely  come  from  Thee ; 

But  let  me  still  abide, 

Nor  from  my  hope  remove, 

Till  Thou  my  patient  spirit  guide 
Into  Thy  perfect  love. 

Charles  Wesley. 


“STERNAL  BEAM  OF  LIGHT  DIVINE.” 

Eternal  beam  of  Light  divine, 

Fountain  of  unexhausted  love, 

In  whom  the  Father’s  glories  shine 

Through  earth  beneath,  and  heaven  above ! 

Jesus,  the  weary  wanderer’s  rest, 

Give  me  Thy  easy  yoke  to  bear ; 

With  steadfast  patience  arm  my  breast, 

With  spotless  love  and  lowly  fear. 

Thankful  I take  the  cup  from  Thee, 

Prepared  and  mingled  by  Thy  skill — 

Though  bitter  to  the  taste  it  be, 

Powerful  the  wounded  soul  to  heal. 

Be  thou,  O Rock  of  Ages,  nigh ! 

So  shall  each  murmuring  thought  be  gone ; 

And  grief,  and  fear,  and  care  shall  fly 
As  clouds  before  the  mid-day  sun. 

Speak  to  my  warring  passions, — Peace  ! 

Say  to  my  trembling  heart, — Be  still ! 

Thy  power  my  strength  and  fortress  is, 

For  all  things  serve  Thy  sovereign  will. 

O Death ! where  is  thy  sting  ? Where  now 
Thy  boasted  victory,  0 Grave  ? 

Who  shall  contend  with  God  ? or  who 
Can  hurt  whom  God  delights  to  save  ? 

Chakles  Wesley. 


7 40 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


LIVING  BY  CHRIST. 

Jesus,  Thy  boundless  love  to  me 
No  thought  can  reach,  no  tongue  declare ; 
0 knit  my  thankful  heart  to  Thee, 

And  reign  without  a rival  there. 

Thine  wholly,  Thine  alone,  I am — 

Be  Thou  alone  my  constant  flame. 

O grant  that  nothing  in  my  soul 
May  dwell  hut  Thy  pure  love  alone ; 

0 may  Thy  love  possess  me  whole — 

My  joy,  my  treasure,  and  my  crown ! • 

Strange  flames  far  from  my  heart  remove — 
My  every  act,  word,  thought,  he  love. 

0 Love,  how  cheering  is  Thy  ray ! 

All  pain  before  Thy  presence  flies ; 

Care,  anguish,  sorrow,  melt  away 
Where’er  Thy  healing  beams  arise ; 

O Jesu,  nothing  may  I see, 

Nothing  desire  or  seek,  but  Thee ! 

Unwearied  may  I this  pursue — 

Dauntless,  to  the  high  prize  aspire ; 
Hourly  within  my  soul  renew 
This  holy  flame,  this  heavenly  fire ; 

And,  day  and  night,  be  all  my  care 
To  guard  the  sacred  treasure  there. 

My  Saviour,  Thou  Thy  love  to  me 
In  shame,  in  want,  in  pain,  hast  showed ; 
For  me,  on  the  accursed  tree, 

Thou  pouredst  forth  Thy  guiltless  blood ; 
Thy  wounds  upon  my  heart  impress, 

Nor  aught  shall  the  loved  stamp  efface. 

More  hard  than  marble  is  my  heart, 

And  foul  with  sins  of  deepest  stain ; 

But  Thou  the  mighty  Saviour  art, 

Nor  flowed  Thy  cleansing  blood  in  vain  ; 
Ah,  soften,  melt  this  rock,  and  may 
Thy  blood  wash  all  these  stains  away ! 

0 that  I,  as  a little  child, 

May  follow  Thee,  and  never  rest 
Till  sweetly  Thou  hast  breathed  Thy  mild 
And  lowly  mind  into  my  breast ! 

Nor  ever  may  we  parted  be 
Till  I become  one  spirit  with  Thee. 


Still  let  Thy  love  point  out  my  way ! 

How  wondrous  things  Thy  love  hath 
wrought ! 

Still  lead  me,  lest  I go  astray — 

Direct  my  word,  inspire  my  thought ; 

And  if  I fall,  soon  may  I hear 

Thy  voice,  and  know  that  love  is  near. 

In  suffering  be  Thy  love  my  peace , 

In  weakness  be  Thy  love  my  power ; 

And  when  the  storms  of  life  shall  cease, 
Jesus,  in  that  important  hour, 

In  death,  as  life,  be  Thou  my  guide, 

And  save  me,  who  for  me  hast  died. 

Paul  Gebhabd.  (German.) 
Translation  of  John  Wesley. 


“ FRIEND  OF  ALL.” 

Feiend  of  all  who  seek  Thy  favor, 
Us  defend 
To  the  end — 

Be  our  utmost  Saviour ! 

Us,  who  join  on  earth  to  adore  Thee, 
Guard  and  love, 

Till  above 

Both  appear  before  Thee ! 

Fix  on  Thee  our  whole  affection — 
Love  divine, 

Keep  us  Thine, 

Safe  in  Thy  protection ! 

Christ,  of  all  our  conversation 
Be  the  scope — 

Lift  us  up 

To  Thy  full  salvation ! 

Bring  us  every  moment  nearer ; 
Fairer  rise 
In  our  eyes — 

Dearer  still,  and  dearer ! 

Infinitely  dear  and  precious, 

With  Thy  love 
From  above 

Evermore  refresh  us ' 


HYMN. 


Strengthened  by  the  cordial  blessing, 
Let  us  haste 
To  the  feast, 

Feast  of  joys  unceasing ! 

Perfect  let  us  walk  before  Thee — 
Walk  in  white 
To  the  sight 
Of  Thy  heavenly  glory ! 

Both  with  calm  impatience  press  on 
To  the  prize — 

Scale  the  skies, 

Take  entire  possession — 

Drink  of  Life’s  exhaustless  river — 
Take  of  Thee 
Life’s  fair  tree — - 
Eat,  and  live  for  ever ! 

Chaeles  Wesley. 


LITANY. 

Saviour,  when  in  dust  to  Thee 
Low  we  bow  the  adoring  knee ; 
When,  repentant,  to  the  skies 
Scarce  we  lift  our  weeping  eyes — 

0 by  all  Thy  pains  and  woe 
Suffered  once  for  man  below, 
Bending  from  Thy  throne  on  high, 
Hear  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

By  Thy  helpless  infant  years ; 

By  Thy  life  of  want  and  tears ; 

By  Thy  days  of  sore  distress, 

In  the  savage  wilderness ; 

By  the  dread,  mysterious  hour 
Of  the  insulting  tempter’s  power — 
Turn,  O turn,  a favoring  eye — 

Hear  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

By  the  sacred  griefs  that  wept 
O’er  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
By  the  boding  tears  that  flowed 
Over  Salem’s  loved  abode ; 

By  the  anguished  sigh  that  told 
Treachery  lurked  within  the  fold — 
From  Thy  seat  above  the  sky 
Hear  our  solemn  Litany ! 


741 

By  Thine  hour  of  dire  despair ; 

By  Thine  agony  of  prayer ; 

By  the  cross,  the  wail,  the  thorn, 
Piercing  spear,  and  torturing  scorn ; 

By  the  gloom  that  veiled  the  skies 
O’er  the  dreadful  sacrifice — 

Listen  to  our  humble  cry : 

Hear  our  solemn  Litany ! 

By  Thy  deep  expiring  groan ; 

By  the  sad  sepulchral  stone ; 

By  the  vault  whose  dark  abode 
Held  in  vain  the  rising  God ! 

O ! from  earth  to  heaven  restored, 
Mighty,  reascended  Lord — 

Listen,  listen  to  the  cry 
Of  our  solemn  Litany  ! 

Sib  Robebt  Geant. 


HYMN 

FOR  SIXTEENTH  SUNDAY  AFTER  TRINITY. 

When  our  heads  are  bowed  with  woe, 
When  our  bitter  tears  o’erflow, 

When  we  mourn  the  lost,  the  dear : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

Thou  our  throbbing  flesh  hast  worn, 
Thou  our  mortal  griefs  hast  borne, 
Thou  hast  shed  the  human  tear : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

When  the  sullen  death-bell  tolls 
For  our  own  departed  souls — 

When  our  final  doom  is  near, 

Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

Thou  hast  bowed  the  dying  head, 
Thou  the  blood  of  life  hast  shed, 

Thou  hast  filled  a mortal  bier : 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

When  the  heart  is  sad  within 
With  the  thought  of  all  its  sin, 

When  the  spirit  shrinks  with  fear, 
Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 


742  POEMS  OF 

RELIGION. 

Thou  the  shame,  the  grief  hast  known ; 

Like  the  gem-bedizened  baby 

Though  the  sins  were  not  Thine  own, 

Which,  at  the  Twelfth-day  noon, 

Thou  hast  deigned  their  load  to  hear : 

They  show  from  the  Ara  Coeli’s  steps 

Gracious  Son  of  Mary,  hear ! 

To  a merry  dancing  tune. 

Hexey  Hart  Milmax. 

I ask  of  Thee  no  wonders — 
No  changing  white  or  red ; 

THE  DEAD  CHRIST. 

I dream  not  Thou  art  living, 

I love  and  prize  Thee  dead. 
That  salutary  deadness 

Take  the  dead  Christ  to  my  chamber — 

I seek  through  want  and  pain, 

From  which  God’s  own  high  power  can  bid 

The  Christ  I brought  from  Rome ; 

Our  virtue  rise  again. 

Over  all  the  tossing  ocean, 

Jexia  Ward  Howe. 

He  has  reached  His  western  home  : 

Bear  Him  as  in  procession, 

And  lay  Him  solemnly 
Where,  through  weary  night  and  morning, 

SONNET. 

He  shall  bear  me  company. 
The  name  I bear  is  other 

Ix  the  desert  of  the  Holy  Land  I strayed, 
WLere  Christ  once  lived,  but  seems  to  live 

Than  that  I bore  by  birth ; 

no  more ; 

And  I ’ve  given  life  to  children 

In  Lebanon  my  lonely  home  I made ; 

Who  ’ll  grow  and  dwell  on  earth ; 

I heard  the  wind  among  the  cedars  roar, 

But  the  time  comes  swiftly  towards  me — 

And  saw  far  off  the  Dead  Sea’s  solemn  shore— 

Nor  do  I bid  it  stay — 

But ’t  is  a dreary  wilderness,  I said, 

When  the  dead  Christ  will  be  more  to  me 

Since  the  prophetic  spirit  hence  has  sped. 

Than  all  I hold  to-day. 

Then  from  the  convent  in  the  vale  I heard, 

Lay  the  dead  Christ  beside  me — 

Slow  chanted  forth,  the  everlasting  Word — 
Saying  “ I am  He  that  liveth,  and  was  dead ; 

0,  press  Him  on  my  heart ; 

And  lo  I am  alive  for  evermore.” 

I would  hold  Him  long  and  painfully, 

Then  forth  upon  my  pilgrimage  I fare, 

Till  the  weary  tears  should  start — 

Resolved  to  find  and  praise  Him  every  where 

Till  the  divine  contagion 

Axoxtmocs. 

Heal  me  of  self  and  sin, 

, 

And  the  cold  weight  press  wholly  down 

The  pulse  that  chokes  within. 

A HYMN. 

Reproof  and  frost,  they  fret  me ; 

Deop,  drop,  slow  tears, 

Towards  the  free,  the  sunny  lands, 

And  bathe  those  beauteous  feet 

From  the  chaos  of  existence, 

Which  brought  from  Heaven 

I stretch  these  feeble  hands — 

The  news  and  Prince  of  Peace ! 

And,  penitential,  kneeling, 

Cease  not,  wet  eyes, 

Pray  God  would  not  be  wroth, 

His  mercies  to  entreat ! 

Who  gave  not  the  strength  of  feeling 

To  cry  for  vengeance 

And  strength  of  labor  both. 

Sin  doth  never  cease ; 

Thou  ’rt  but  a wooden  carving, 

In  your  deep  floods 

Drown  all  my  faults  and  fears ; 

Defaced  of  worms,  and  old ; 

Nor  let  His  eye 

Yet  more  to  me  Thou  couldst  not  be 

See  sin,  but  through  my  tears. 

Wert  Thou  all  wrapt  in  gold 

Phixkas  Fletcher. 

CHRISTMAS. 


'743 


A CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 

Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 

No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars — 
Peace  brooded  o’er  the  hushed  domain  : 

Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago. 

’T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome, 

Impatient,  urged  his  chariot’s  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home ; 

Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 
His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless 
sway; 

What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 
A paltry  province  far  away, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago  ? 

Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a weary  boor; 

A streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a half-shut  stable-door 

Across  his  path.  He  passed — for  naught 
Told  what  was  going  on  within ; 

How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought — 
The  air  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 

In  the  solemn  midnight, 

Centuries  ago ! 

O,  strange  indifference ! low  and  high 
Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares ; 

The  earth  was  still — but  knew  not  why 
The  world  was  listening,  unawares. 

How  calm  a moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  for  ever ! 

To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 
Man’s  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever— 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 

Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 
The  darkness — charmed  and  holy  now ! 


The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn, 

To  it  a happy  name  is  given ; 

For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

Alfred  Dommett. 


CHRISTMAS. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night — 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new — 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 

The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 

Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 

Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 
But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 

Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 
Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 

Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land — 
Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Alfred  Tennysoh. 


744 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


ST.  PETER’S  DAY. 

Thou  thrice  denied,  yet  thrice  beloved, 
Watch  hy  Thine  own  forgiven  friend! 

In  sharpest  perils  faithful  proved, 

Let  his  soul  love  Thee  to  the  end. 

The  prayer  is  heard — else  why  so  deep 
His  slumber  on  the  eve  of  death  ? 

And  wherefore  smiles  he  in  his  sleep, 

As  one  who  drew  celestial  breath  ? 

He  loves  and  is  beloved  again — 

Can  his  soul  choose  hut  be  at  rest  ? 

Sorrow  hath  fled  away,  and  pain 
Dares  not  invade  the  guarded  nest. 

He  dearly  loves,  and  not  alone ; 

For  his  winged  thoughts  are  soaring  high 
Where  never  yet  frail  heart  was  known 
To  breathe  in  vain  affection’s  sigh. 

He  loves  and  weeps ; hut  more  than  tears 
Have  sealed  Thy  welcome  and  his  love — 
One  look  lives  in  him,  and  endears 

Crosses  and  wrongs  where’er  he  rove — 

That  gracious  chiding  look,  Thy  call 
To  win  him  to  himself  and  Thee, 
Sweetening  the  sorrow  of  his  fall 
Which  else  were  rued  too  bitterly ; 

Even  through  the  veil  of  sleep  it  shines, 

The  memory  of  that  kindly  glance ; — 

The  angel,  watching  hy,  divines, 

And  spares  awhile  his  blissful  trance. 

Or  haply  to  his  native  lake 
His  vision  wafts  him  hack,  to  talk 
With  Jesus,  ere  his  flight  he  take, 

As  in  that  solemn  evening  walk, 

WTten  to  the  bosom  of  his  friend, 

The  Shepherd,  He  whose  name  is  Good, 
\)id  His  dear  lambs  and  sheep  commend, 
Both  bought  and  nourished  with  His  blood ; 


Then  laid  on  him  th’  inverted  tree, 

Which,  firm  embraced  with  heart  and  arm, 
Might  cast  o’er  hope  and  memory, 

O’er  life  and  death,  its  awful  charm. 

With  brightening  heart  he  hears  it  on, 

His  passport  through  th’  eternal  gates, 

To  his  sweet  home — so  nearly  won, 

He  seems,  as  hy  the  door  he  waits, 

The  unexpressive  notes  to  hear 
Of  angel  song  and  angel  motion, 

Rising  and  falling  on  the  ear 
Like  waves  in  Joy’s  unbounded  ocean. — 

His  dream  is  changed — the  tyrant’s  voice 
Calls  to  that  last  of  glorious  deeds — 

But  as  he  rises  to  rejoice, 

Hot  Herod,  but  an  angel  leads. 

He  dreams  he  sees  a lamp  flash  bright, 
Glancing  around  his  prison  room ; 

But ’t  is  a gleam  of  heavenly  light 
That  fills  up  all  the  ample  gloom. 

The  flame,  that  in  a few  short  years 
Deep  through  the  chambers  of  the  dead 
Shall  pierce,  and  dry  the  fount  of  tears, 

Is  waving  o’er  his  dungeon-bed. 

Touched,  he  upstarts — his  chains  unbind — 
Through  darksome  vault,  up  massy  stair, 
His  dizzy,  doubting  footsteps  wind 
To  freedom  and  cool,  moonlight,  air. 

Then  all  himself,  all  joy  and  calm, 

Though  for  awhile  his  hand  forego, 

Just  as  it  touched,  the  martyr’s  palm, 

He  turns  him  to  his  task  below : 

The  pastoral  staff,  the  keys  of  heaven, 

To  wield  awhile  in  gray-haired  might — 
Then  from  his  cross  to  spring  forgiven, 

And  follow  Jesus  out  of  sight. 

John  Keblk 


THE  LABORER’S  NOONDAY  HYMN. 


745 


THE  EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDAS. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  th’  ocean’s  bosom,  unespied — 

From  a small  boat,  that  rowed  along, 

The  list’ning  winds  received  this  song : 

What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 

And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 

Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks 
That  lift  the  deep  hpon  their  backs, 

He  lands  us  on  a grassy  stage, 

Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate’s  rage. 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing, 

And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care, 

On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright, 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a green  night, 

And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 
Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows. 

He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet, 
And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet. 

But  apples — plants  of  such  a price 
No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 

With  cedars,  chosen  by  His  hand 
From  Lebanon,  He  stores  the  land ; 

And  makes  the  hollow  seas,  that  roar, 
Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 

The  Gospel’s  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A temple,  where  to  sound  His  name. 

O ! let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven’s  vault ; 

Which,  then,  perhaps  rebounding,  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay. 

Thus  sang  they,  in  the  English  boat, 

A holy  and  a cheerful  note ; 

And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

Andrew  Marvell. 


HYMN  OF  THE  HEBREW  MAID. 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 

Her  father’s  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 

By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands 
The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 

By  night,  Arabia’s  crimsoned  sands 
Returned  the  fiery  column’s  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen ; 

And  Zion’s  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest’s  and  warrior’s  voice  between. 

No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze — 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone; 

Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

And  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But,  present  still,  though  now  unseen, 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 

Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a cloudy  screen, 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 

And  O,  when  stoops  on  Judah’s  path 
In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 

Be  Thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A burning  and  a shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel’s  streams — 

The  tyrant’s  jest,  the  Gentile’s  scorn; 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  trump,  and  horn. 

But  Thou  hast  said,  the  blood  of  goats, 

The  flesh  of  rams,  I will  not  prize — 

A contrite  heart,  and  humble  thoughts, 

Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice. 

Sir  Walter  Scott 


THE  LABORER’S  NOONDAY  HYMN. 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne 
The  voice  of  praise  at  early  morn, 

And  He  accepts  the  punctual  hymn 
Sung  as  the  light  of  day  grows  dim ; 

Nor  will  He  turn  his  ear  aside 
From  holy  offerings  at  noontide : 

Then,  here  reposing,  let  us  raise 
A song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 


746 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


What  though  our  burden  he  not  light, 

We  need  not  toil  from  morn  to  night ; 

The  respite  of  the  mid-day  hour 
Is  in  the  thankful  creature’s  power. 

Blest  are  the  moments,  doubly  blest, 
That,  drawn  from  this  one  hour  of  rest, 
Are  with  a ready  heart  bestowed 
Upon  the  service  of  our  God ! 

Each  field  is  then  a hallowed  spot — 

An  altar  is  in  each  man’s  cot, 

A church  in  every  grove  that  spreads 
Its  living  roof  above  our  heads. 

Look  up  to  heaven ! the  industrious  sun 
Already  half  his  race  hath  run ; 

He  cannot  halt  nor  go  astray — 

But  our  immortal  spirits  may. 

Lord ! since  his  rising  in  the  east 
If  we  have  faltered  or  transgressed, 
Guide,  from  Thy  love’s  abundant  source, 
What  yet  remains  of  this  day’s  course. 

Help  with  Thy  grace,  through  life’s  short 
day, 

Our  upward  and  our  downward  way; 
And  glorify  for  us  the  west, 

When  we  shall  sink  to  final  rest. 

William  Wobdswobth. 


TO  KEEP  A TRUE  LENT. 

Is  this  a fast — to  keep 
The  larder  lean, 

And  clean 

From  fat  of  veals  and  sheep  ? 

Is  it  to  quit  the  dish 

Of  flesh,  yet  still 
To  fill 

The  platter  high  with  fish  ? 

Is  it  to  fast  an  hour — 

Or  ragged  to  go — 

Or  show 

A downcast  look,  and  sour  ? 


No ! ’t  is  a fast  to  dole 

Thy  sheaf  of  wheat, 

And  meat, 

Unto  the  hungry  soul. 

It  is  to  fast  from  strife, 

From  old  debate 
And  hate — 

To  circumcise  thy  life. 

To  show  a heart  grief-rent; 

To  starve  thy  sin, 

Not  bin — 

And  that ’s  to  keep  thy  lent. 

Kobebt  Heebick. 


FASTING. 

Is  fasting  then  the  thing  that  God  requires  ? 

Can  fasting  expiate,  or  slake  those  fires 
That  sin  hath  blown  to  such  a mighty 
flame? 

Can  sackcloth  clothe  a fault,  or  hide  a shame  ? 
Can  ashes  cleanse  thy  blot,  or  purge  thy  of- 
fence ? 

Or  do  thy  hands  make  heaven  a recompense, 
By  strewing  dust  upon  thy  briny  face  ? 

Are  these  the  tricks  to  purchase  heavenly 
grace  ? — 

No!  though  thou  pine  thyself  with  willing 
want, 

Or  face  look  thin,  or  carcass  ne’er  so  gaunt ; 
Although  thou  worser  weeds  than  sackcloth 
wear, 

Or  naked  go,  or  sleep  in  shirts  of  hair ; 

Or  though  thou  choose  an  ash-tub  for  thy  bed, 
Or  make  a daily  dunghill  on  thy  head ; — 
Thy  labor  is  not  poised  with  equal  gains, 

For  thou  hast  nought  but  labor  for  thy 
pains. 

Such  holy  madness  God  rejects  and  loathes, 
That  sinks  no  deeper  than  the  skin  or  clothes. 
’Tis  not  thine  eyes,  which,  taught  to  weep 
by  art, 

Look  red  with  tears  (not  guilty  of  thy  heart) ; 
’T  is  not  the  holding  of  thy  hands  so  high, 
Nor  yet  the  purer  squinting  of  thine  eye; 


J 


CHARITY  AND  HUMILITY. 


14:1 


’Tis  not  your  mimic  mouths,  your  antic 
faces, 

Your  Scripture  phrases,  or  affected  graces, 
or  prodigal  up-handing  of  thine  eyes, 

Whose  gashful  balls  do  seem  to  pelt  the 
skies ; 

’T  is  not  the  strict  reforming  of  your  hair, 

So  close  that  all  the  neighbor  skull  is 
bare; 

’T  is  not  the  drooping  of  thy  head  so  low, 
Nor  yet  the  lowering  of  thy  sullen  brow ; 

Nor  wolvish  howling  that  disturbs  the  air, 
Nor  repetitions,  or  your  tedious  prayer : 

No,  no ! ’tis  none  of  this,  that  God  regards — 
Such  sort  of  fools  their  own  applause  re- 
wards ; 

Such  puppet-plays  to  heaven  are  strange  and 
quaint ; 

Their  service  is  unsweet,  and  foully  taint ; 
Their  words  fall  fruitless  from  their  idle 
brain — 

But  true  repentance  runs  in  other  strain : 
Where  sad  contrition  harbors,  there  the 
heart 

Is  truly  acquainted  with  the  secret  smart 
Of  past  offences — hates  the  bosom  sin 
The  most,  which  the  soul  took  pleasure  in. 
No  crime  unsifted,  no  sin  unpresented. 

Can  lurk  unseen ; and  seen,  none  unlament- 
ed. 

The  troubled  soul ’s  amazed  with  dire  aspects 
Of  lesser  sins  committed,  and  detects 
The  wounded  conscience ; it  cries  amain 
Bor  mercy,  mercy — cries,  and  cries  again; 
It  sadly  grieves,  and  soberly  laments ; 

It  yearns  for  grace,  reforms,  returns,  re- 
pents. 

Aye,  this  is  incense  whose  accepted  favor 
Mounts  up  the  heavenly  Throne,  and  findeth 
favor ; 

Aye,  this  is  it  whose  valor  never  fails — 

With  God  it  stoutly  wrestles,  and  prevails ; 
Aye,  this  is  it  that  pierces  heaven  above, 
Never  returning  home,  like  Noah’s  dove, 

But  brings  an  olive  leaf,  or  some  increase 
That  works  salvation,  and  eternal  peace. 

Francis  Quarles. 


CHARITY  AND  HUMILITY. 

Far  have  I clambered  in  my  mind, 

But  naught  so  great  as  love  I find ; 
Deep-searching  wit,  mount-moving  might, 
Are  naught  compared  to  that  good  spright. 
Life  of  delight,  and  soul  of  bliss ! 

Sure  source  of  lasting  happiness ! 

Higher  than  heaven,  lower  than  hell ! 

What  is  thy  tent?  where  mayst  thou  dwell? 

My  mansion  hight  Humility, 

Heaven’s  vastest  capability — 

The  further  it  doth  downward  tend 
The  higher  up  it  doth  ascend ; 

If  it  go  down  to  utmost  naught 
It  shall  return  with  that  it  sought. 

Lord,  stretch  Thy  tent  in  my  strait 
breast — 

Enlarge  it  downward,  that  sure  rest 
May  there  be  pight ; for  that  pure  fire 
Wherewith  thou  wontest  to  inspire 
All  self-dead  souls.  My  life  is  gone — 

Sad  solitude ’s  my  irksome  wonne. 

Cut  off  from  men  and  all  this  world, 

In  Lethe’s  lonesome  ditch  I ’m  hurled. 

Nor  might  nor  sight  doth  aught  me  move, 
Nor  do  I care  to  be  above. 

O feeble  rays  of  mental  light, 

That  best  be  seen  in  this  dark  night ! 

What  are  you  ? what  is  any  strength 
If  it  be  not  laid  in  one  length 
With  pride  or  love  ? I naught  desire 
But  a new  life,  or  quite  t’  expire. 

Could  I demolish  with  mine  eye 
Strong  towers,  stop  the  fleet  stars  in  sky, 
Bring  down  to  earth  the  pale-faced  moon, 

Or  turn  black  midnight  to  bright  noon— 
Though  all  things  were  put  in  my  hand- 
As  parched,  as  dry,  as  the  Libyan  sand 
Would  be  my  life,  if  charity 
Were  wanting.  But  humility 
Is  more  than  my  poor  soul  durst  crave, 

That  lies  intombed  in  lowly  grave. 

But  if ’t  were  lawful  up  to  send 
My  voice  to  heaven,  this  should  it  rend : 
Lord,  thrust  me  deeper  into  dust 
That  Thou  mayest  raise  me  with  the  just! 

IIenry  More. 


748 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


HUMILITY. 

The  bird  that  soars  on  highest  wing 
Builds  on  the  ground  her  lowly  nest ; 
And  she  that  doth  most  sweetly  sing 
Sings  in  the  shade,  where  all  things  rest ; 

In  lark  and  nightingale  we  see 
What  honor  hath  humility. 

When  Mary  chose  u the  better  part,” 

She  meekly  sat  at  Jesus’  feet ; 

And  Lydia’s  gently  opened  heart 
Was  made  for  God’s  own  temple  meet : 
Fairest  and  best  adorned  is  she 
Whose  clothing  is  humility. 

The  saint  that  wears  heaven’s  brightest 
crown 

In  deepest  adoration  bends : 

The  weight  of  glory  bows  him  down 
Then  most,  when  most  his  soul  ascends : 
Nearest  the  throne  itself  must  be 
The  footstool  of  humility. 

.Tames  Montgomery. 


“IS  THIS  A TIME  TO  PLANT  AND 
BUILD?” 

Is  this  a time  to  plant  and  build, 

| Add  house  to  house,  and  field  to  field, 

When  round  our  walls  the  battle  lowers — 
When  mines  are  hid  beneath  our  towers, 
And  watchful  foes  are  stealing  round 
i To  search  and  spoil  the  holy  ground  ? 

j Is  this  a time  for  moonlight  dreams 
Of  love  and  home,  by  mazy  streams — 

For  fancy  with  her  shadowy  toys, 

Aerial  hopes  and  pensive  joys, 

While  souls  are  wandering  far  and  wide, 
And  curses  swarm  on  every  side  ? 

No — rather  steel  thy  melting  heart 
To  act  the  martyr’s  sternest  part — 

To  watch,  with  firm  unshrinking  eye, 

Thy  darling  visions  as  they  die, 

Till  all  bright  hopes,  and  hues  of  day, 

Have  faded  into  twilight  gray. 

Yes — let  them  pass  without  a sigh; 

\nd  if  the  world  seem  dull  and  dry — 


If  long  and  sad  thy  lonely  hours, 

And  winds  have  rent  thy  sheltering  bowers — 
Bethink  thee  what  thou  art,  and  where 
A sinner  in  a life  of  care. 

The  fire  of  God  is  soon  to  fall — 

Thou  know’st  it — on  this  earthly  ball ; 

Full  many  a soul,  the  price  of  blood 
Marked  by  the  Almighty’s  hand  for  good, 

To  utter  death  that  hour  shall  sweep — 

And  will  the  saints  in  heaven  dare  weep  ? 

Then  in  His  wrath  shall  God  uproot 
The  trees  He  set,  for  lack  of  fruit ; 

And  drown  in  rude  tempestuous  blaze 
The  towers  His  hand  had  deigned  to  raise. 

In  silence,  ere  that  storm  begin, 

Count  o’er  His  mercies  and  thy  sin. 

Pray  only  that  thine  aching  heart — 

From  visions  vain  content  to  part, 

Strong  for  love’s  sake  its  woe  to  hide — 

May  cheerful  wait  the  cross  beside : 

Too  happy  i^  that  dreadful  day, 

Thy  life  be  given  thee  for  a prey. 

Snatched  sudden,  from  the  avenging  rod, 

Safe  in  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

How  wilt  thou  then  look  back,  and  smile 
On  thoughts  that  bitterest  seemed  erewhile; 
And  bless  the  pangs  that  made  thee  see 
This  was  no  world  of  rest  for  thee ! 

John  Keble. 


HYMN 

FOR  ANNIVERSARY  MARRIAGE  DAYS. 

Lord,  living  here  are  we — 

As  fast  united  yet 

As  when  our  hands  and  hearts  by  Thee 
Together  first  were  knit. 

And  in  a thankful  song 

Now  sing  we  will  Thy  praise, 

For  that  Thou  dost  as  well  prolong 
Our  loving  as  our  days. 


THE  PRIEST. 


749 


Together  we  have  now 
Begun  another  year ; 

But  how  much  time  Thou  wilt  allow 
Thou  mak’st  it  not  appear. 

We,  therefore,  do  implore 
That  live  and  love  we  may, 

Still  so  as  if  but  one  day  more 
Together  we  should  stay. 

Let  each  of  other’s  wealth 
Preserve  a faithful  care, 

And  of  each  other’s  joy  and  health 
As  if  one  soul  we  were. 

Such  conscience  let  us  make, 

Each  other  not  to  grieve, 

As  if  we  daily  were  to  take 
Our  everlasting  leave. 

The  frowardness  that  springs 
From  our  corrupted  kind, 

Or  from  those  troublous  outward  things 
Which  may  distract  the  mind, 

Permit  Thou  not,  0 Lord, 

Our  constant  love  to  shake — 

Or  to  disturb  our  true  accord, 

Or  make  our  hearts  to  ache. 

But  let  these  frailties  prove 
Affection’s  exercise ; 

And  that  discretion  teach  our  love 
Which  wins  the  noblest  prize. 

So  time,  which  wears  away, 

And  ruins  all  things  else, 

Shall  fix  our  love  on  Thee  for  aye, 

In  whom  perfection  dwells. 

Geoege  Withes. 


DEDICATION  OF  A CHURCH. 

Jerusalem,  that  place  divine, 

The  vision  of  sweet  peace  is  named ; 

In  heaven  her  glorious  turrets  shine — 
Her  walls  of  living  stones  are  framed ; 
While  angels  guard  her  on  each  side — 
Fit  company  for  such  a bride. 

She,  decked  in  new  attire  from  heaven, 
Her  wedding  chamber  now  descends, 
Prepared  in  marriage  to  be  given 
To  Christ,  on  whom  her  joy  depends. 


Her  walls,  wherewith  she  is  inclosed, 
And  streets,  are  of  pure  gold  composed. 

The  gates,  adorned  with  pearls  most  bright, 
The  way  to  hidden  glory  show ; 

And  thither,  by  the  blessed  might 
Of  faith  in  Jesus’  merits,  go 
All  those  who  are  on  earth  distressed 
Because  they  have  Christ’s  name  pro- 
fessed. 

These  stones  the  workmen  dress  and  beat 
Before  they  throughly  polished  are ; 

Then  each  is  in  his  proper  seat 
Established  by  the  Builder’s  care — 

In  this  fair  frame  to  stand  for  ever, 

So  joined  that  them  no  force  can  sever. 

To  Cod,  who  sits  in  highest  seat, 

Glory  and  power  given  be ! 

To  Father,  Son,  and  Paraclete, 

Who  reign  in  equal  dignity — 

Whose  boundless  power  we  still  adore, 
And  sing  Their  praise  for  evermore ! 

William  Deitmmond. 


THE  PRIEST. 

I would  I were  an  excellent  divine 
That  had  the  Bible  at  my  fingers’  ends ; 
That  men  might  hear  out  of  this  mouth  of 
mine, 

How  God  doth  make  His  enemies  His 
friends ; 

Rather  than  with  a thundering  and  long 
prayer 

Be  led  into  presumption,  or  despair. 

This  would  I be,  and  would  none  other  be — 
But  a religious  servant  of  my  God ; 

And  know  there  is  none  other  God  but  He, 
And  willingly  to  suffer  mercy’s  rod — 

Joy  in  His  grace,  and  live  but  in  His  love, 
And  seek  my  bliss  but  in  the  world  above. 

And  I would  frame  a kind  of  faithful  prayer 
For  all  estates  within  the  state  of  grace, 
That  careful  love  might  never  know  despair 
Nor  servile  fear  might  faithful  love  deface 
And  this  would  I both  day  and  night  devise 
To  make  my  humble  spirit’s  exercise. 


750 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


And  I would  read  the  rules  of  sacred  life ; 

Persuade  the  troubled  soul  to  patience ; 
The  husband  care,  and  comfort  to  the  wife, 
To  child  and  servant  due  obedience ; 

Faith  to  the  friend,  and  to  the  neighbor 
peace, 

That  love  might  live,  and  quarrels  all  might 
cease. 

Prayer  for  the  health  of  all  that  are  diseased, 
Confession  unto  all  that  are  convicted, 

And  patience  unto  all  that  are  displeased, 
And  comfort  unto  all  that  are  afflicted, 
And  mercy  unto  all  that  have  offended, 

And  grace  to  all : that  all  may  be  amended. 

Nicholas  Beeton. 


ON  A PRAYER  BOOK  SENT  TO  MRS. 
M.  R. 

Lo ! here  a little  volume,  but  great  book, 
(Fear  it  not,  sweet — 

It  is  no  hypocrite ! ) 

Much  larger  in  itself  than  in  its  look ! 

It  is — in  one  rich  handful — Heaven,  and  all 
Heaven’s  royal  hosts  encamped — thus  small 
To  prove,  that  true  schools  use  to  tell, 

A thousand  angels  in  one  point  can  dwell. 

It  is  love’s  great  artillery, 

Which  here  contracts  itself,  and  comes  to  lie 
Close  couched  in  your  white  bosom,  and  from 
thence, 

As  from  a snowy  fortress  of  defence, 

Against  the  ghostly  foe  to  take  your  part, 
And  fortify  the  hold  of  your  chaste  heart. 

It  is  the  armory  of  light — 

Let  constant  use  but  keep  it  bright, 

You  ’ll  find  it  yields 
To  holy  hands  and  humble  hearts 
More  swords  and  shields 
Than  sin  hath  snares,  or  hell  hath  darts. 

Only  be  sure 
The  hands  be  pure 

That  hold  these  weapons,  and  the  eyes 
Those  of  turtles — chaste  and  true, 

Wakeful  and  wise. 

Here  is  a friend  shall  fight  for  you ; 


Hold  but  this  book  before  your  heart — 

Let  prayer  alone  to  play  his  part. 

But  0 ! the  heart 

That  studies  this  high  art 

Must  be  a sure  house-keeper, 

And  yet  no  sleeper. 

Dear  soul,  be  strong — 

Mercy  will  come  ere  long, 

And  bring  her  bosom  full  of  blessings — 
Flowers  of  never-fading  graces, 

To  make  immortal  dressings 
For  worthy  souls,  whose  wise  embraces 
Store  up  themselves  for  Him  who  is  alone 
The  Spouse  of  virgins,  and  the  Virgin’s  Son, 

But  if  the  noble  Bridegroom,  when  He  comes, 
Shall  find  the  wandering  heart  from 
home, 

Leaving  her  chaste  abode 
To  gad  abroad — 

Amongst  the  gay  mates  of  the  god  of  flies 
To  take  her  pleasures,  and  to  play, 

And  keep  the  devil’s  holiday — 

To  dance  in  the  sun-shine  of  some  smiling, 
But  beguiling 

Spear  of  sweet  and  sugared  lies — 

Some  slippery  pair 
Of  false,  perhaps  as  fair, 

Flattering  but  forswearing  eyes — 

Doubtless  some  other  heart 
Will  get  the  start, 

And,  stepping  in  before, 

Will  take  possession  of  the  sacred  store 
Oi^ndden  sweets  and  holy  joys — 

Words  which  are  not  heard  with  ears, 
(These  tumultuous  shops  of  noise) 

Effectual  whispers,  whose  still  voice 
The  soul  itself  more  feels  than  hears — 

Amorous  languishments,  luminous  trances, 
Sights  which  are  not  seen  with  eyes — 
Spiritual  and  soul-piercing  glances, 

Whose  pure  and  subtle  lightning  flies 
Home  to  the  heart,  and  sets  the  house  on  fire, 
And  melts  it  down  in  sweet  desire ; 

Yet  doth  not  stay 

To  ask  the  windows  leave  to  pass  that  way- 


THE  TRUE  USE  OF  MUSIC.  751 


Delicious  deaths,  soft  exhalations 
Of  soul,  dear  and  divine  annihilations — 

A thousand  unknown  rites 
Of  joys,  and  rarified  delights — 

An  hundred  thousand  loves  and  graces, 

And  many  a mystic  thing 
Which  the  divine  embraces 
Of  the  dear  Spouse  of  spirits  with  them  will 
bring, 

For  which  it  is  no  shame 
That  dull  mortality  must  not  know  a name. 

Of  all  this  hidden  store 
Of  blessings,  and  ten  thousand  more, 

If,  when  He  come, 

He  find  the  heart  from  home, 

Doubtless  He  will  unload 
Himself  some  otherwhere, 

And  pour  abroad 
His  precious  sweets 
On  the  fair  soul  whom  first  He  meets. 

0 fair ! 0 fortunate ! O rich ! 0 dear ! 

O happy  and  thrice  happy  she — 

Dear  silver-breasted  dove, 

Whoe’er  she  be — 

Whose  early  love 
With  winged  vows 

Makes  haste  to  meet  her  Morning  Spouse, 
And  close  with  His  immortal  kisses— 

Happy  soul ! who  never  misses 
To  improve  that  precious  hour, 

And  every  day 
Seize  her  sweet  prey — 

All  fresh  and  fragrant  as  He  rises, 
Dropping  with  a balmy  shower, 

A delicious  dew  of  spices ! 

0 1 let  that  happy  soul  hold  fast 
Her  heavenly  armful ; she  shall  taste 
At  once  ten  thousand  paradises — 

She  shall  have  power 
To  rifle  and  deflower 

The  rich  and  roseal  spring  of  those  rare  sweets 
Which,  with  a swelling  bosom,  there  she 
meets — 

Boundless  and  infinite,  bottomless  treasures 
Of  pure  inebriating  pleasures : 
Happy  soul ! she  shall  discover 
What  joy,  what  bliss, 

How  many  heavens  at  once,  it  is 
To  have  a God  become  her  lover. 

Richard  Crashaw. 


THE  TRUE  USE  OF  MUSIC. 

Listed  into  the  cause  of  sin, 

Why  should  a good  be  evil  ? 

Music,  alas ! too  long  has  been 
Pressed  to  obey  the  devil — 

Drunken,  or  lewd,  or  light,  the  lay 
Flowed  to  the  soul’s  undoing — 
Widened,  and  strewed  with  flowers,  the 
way 

Down  to  eternal  ruin. 

Who  on  the  part  of  God  will  rise, 

Innocent  sound  recover — 

Fly  on  the  prey,  and  take  the  prize, 
Plunder  the  carnal  lover — 

Strip  him  of  every  moving  strain, 

Every  melting  measure — 

Music  in  virtue’s  cause  retain, 

Rescue  the  holy  pleasure  ? 

Come  let  us  try  if  Jesus’  love 
Will  not  as  well  inspire  us ; 

This  is  the  theme  of  those  above— 

This  upon  earth  shall  fire  us. 

Say,  if  your  hearts  are  tuned  to  sing, 

Is  there  a subject  greater  ? 

Harmony  all  its  strains  may  bring  ; 

Jesus’  name  is  sweeter. 

Jesus  the  soul  of  music  is — 

His  is  the  noblest  passion ; 

Jesus’s  name  is  joy  and  peace, 

Happiness  and  salvation ; 

Jesus’s  name  the  dead  can  raise- 
Show  us  our  sins  forgiven — 

Fill  us  with  all  the  life  of  grace- 
Carry  us  up  to  heaven. 

Who  hath  a right  like  us  to  sing 
Us  whom  His  mercy  raises  ? 

Merry  our  hearts,  for  Christ  is  King  ; 

Cheerful  are  all  our  faces ; 

Who  of  His  love  doth  once  partake 
He  evermore  rejoices ; 

Melody  in  our  hearts  we  make — 

Melody  with  our  voices. 

He  that  a sprinkled  conscience  hath — 
ne  that  in  God  is  merry — 

Let  him  sing  psalms,  the  Spirit  saith, 
Joyful  and  never  weary ; 


152 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Offer  the  sacrifice  of  praise, 

Hearty  and  never  ceasing — 

Spiritual  songs  and  anthems  raise. 

Honor,  and  thanks,  and  blessing. 

Then  let  us  in  His  praises  join — 
Triumph  in  His  salvation ; 

Glory  ascribe  to  love  divine, 

Worship  and  adoration; 

Heaven  already  is  begun — 

Opened  in  each  believer ; 

Only  believe,  and  still  sing  on : 

Heaven  is  ours  for  ever. 

Charles  Wesley. 


CENTENNIAL  ODE. 

Beeak  forth  in  song,  ye  trees, 

As,  through  your  tops,  the  breeze 
Sweeps  from  the  sea ! 

For,  on  its  rushing  wings, 

To  your  cool  shades  and  springs, 
That  breeze  a people  brings, 

Exiled  though  free. 

Ye  sister  hills,  lay  down 
Of  ancient  oaks  your  crown, 

In  homage  due ; 

These  are  the  great  of  earth — 
Great,  not  by  kingly  birth, 

Great  in  their  well-proved  worth — 
Firm  hearts  and  true. 

These  are  the  living  lights, 

That  from  your  bold,  green  heights 
Shall  shine  afar, 

Till  they  who  name  the  name 
Of  freedom,  toward  the  flame 
Come,  as  the  Magi  came 

Toward  Bethlehem’s  Star. 

Gone  are  those  great  and  good 
Who  here  in  peril  stood 
And  raised  their  hymn. 

Peace  to  the  reverend  dead! — 

The  light,  that  on  their  head 
Two  hundred  years  have  shed, 
Shall  ne’er  grow  dim. 


Ye  temples,  that  to  God 
Rise  where  our  fathers’  trod, 

Guard  well  your  trust : 

The  faith  that  dared  the  sea ; 

The  truth  that  made  them  free ; 
Their  cherished  purity, 

Their  garnered  dust. 

Thou  high  and  holy  One, 

Whose  care  for  sire  and  son 
All  nature  fills — 

While  day  shall  break  and  close, 
While  night  her  crescent  shows, 

0,  let  Thy  light  repose 
On  these  our  hills ! 

John  Pierpont. 


THE  FIELD  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Sow  in  the  morn  thy  seed, 

At  eve  hold  not  thine  hand — 

To  doubt  and  fear  give  thou  no  heed — 
Broad-cast  it  o’er  the  land. 

Beside  all  waters  sow, 

The  highway  furrows  stock — 

Drop  it  where  thorns  and  thistles  grow, 
Scatter  it  on  the  rock. 

The  good,  the  fruitful  ground 
Expect  not  here  nor  there, 

O’er  hill  and  dale  by  plots ’t  is  found : 
Go  forth,  then,  everywhere. 

Thou  know’st  not  which  may  thrive — 
The  late  or  early  sown ; 

Grace  keeps  the  precious  germs  alive, 
When  and  wherever  strown. 

And  duly  shall  appear, 

In  verdure,  beauty,  strength, 

The  tender  blade,  the  stalk,  the  ear, 
And  the  full  corn  at  length. 

Thou  canst  not  toil  in  vain — 

Cold,  heat,  and  moist,  and  dry 

Shall  foster  and  mature  the  grain 
For  garners  in  the  sky. 


WHAT  IS  PRAYER. 


753 


Thence,  when  the  glorious  end, 

The  day  of  God  is  come, 

The  angel-reapers  shall  descend, 

And  heaven  cry  “Harvest  home ! ” 
James  Montgomeby. 


MISSIONARY  HYMN. 

Fkom  Greenland’s  icy  mountains, 

From  India’s  coral  strand, 

Where  Afric’s  sunny  fountains 
Roll  down  their  golden  sand — 

From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a palmy  plain, 

They  call  us  to  deliver 
Their  land  from  error’s  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 
Blow  soft  o’er  Ceylon’s  isle, 

Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile : 

In  vain,  with  lavish  kindness, 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strown — 

The  heathen,  in  his  blindness, 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 

Shall  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 
With  wisdom  from  on  high — 

Shall  we  to  man  benighted 
The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 

Salvation!  0,  Salvation! 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 

Till  earth’s  remotest  nation 
Has  learned  Messiah’s  name. 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  the  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 

Till,  like  a sea  of  glory, 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole — 

Till  o’er  our  ransomed  nature 
The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain — 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator — 

In  bliss  return  to  reign. 

Reginald  Hebeb. 


WHAT  IS  PRAYER? 

Prayer  is  the  soul’s  sincere  desire, 
Uttered  or  unexpressed — 

The  motion  of  a hidden  fire 
That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burthen  of  a sigh, 

The  falling  of  a tear — 

The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 
That  infant  lips  can  try — 

Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 
The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner’s  voice 
Returning  from  his  ways, 

While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 

And  cry,  “ Behold  he  prays ! ” 

Prayer  is  the  Christian’s  vital  breath — 
The  Christian’s  native  air — 

His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death — 
He  enters  heaven  with  prayer. 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one 
In  word,  and  deed,  and  mind, 

While  with  the  Father  and  the  Son 
Sweet  fellowship  they  find. 

Nor  prayer  is  made  by  man  alone — 

The  Holy  Spirit  pleads — 

And  Jesus,  on  the  eternal  throne, 

For  sinners  intercedes. 

0 Thou  by  whom  we  come  to  God — 

The  life,  the  truth,  the  way ! 

The  path  of  prayef  Thyself  hast  trod : 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray. 

James  Montgomeby, 


48 


754 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


EXHORTATION  TO  PRAYER. 

Not  on  a prayerless  bed,  not  on  a prayerless 
bed 

Compose  tby  weary  limbs  to  rest ; 

For  they  alone  are  blessed 
"With  balmy  sleep 
Whom  angels  keep ; 

Nor,  though  by  care  oppressed, 

Or  anxious  sorrow, 

Or  thought  in  many  a coil  perplexed 
For  coming  morrow, 

Lay  not  thy  head 
On  prayerless  bed. 

For  who  can  tell,  when  sleep  thine  eyes  shall 
close, 

That  earthly  cares  and  woes 
To  thee  may  e’er  return  ? 

Arouse,  my  soul ! 

Slumber  control, 

And  let  thy  lamp  burn  brightly ; 

So  shall  thine  eyes  discern 
Things  pure  and  sightly ; 

Taught  by  the  Spirit,  learn 
Never  on  prayerless  bed 
To  lay  thine  unblest  head. 

Hast  thou  no  pining  want,  or  wish,  or  care, 
That  calls  for  holy  prayer  ? 

Has  thy  day  been  so  bright 
That  in  its  flight 
There  is  no  trace  of  sorrow  ? 

And  art  thou  sure  to-morrow 
Will  be  like  this,  and  more 
Abundant  ? Dost  thou  yet  lay  up  thy  store, 
And  still  make  plans  for  more  ? 

Thou  fool ! this  very  night 
Thy  soul  may  wing  its  flight. 

Hast  thou  no  being  than  thyself  more  dear, 
That  ploughs  the  ocean  deep, 

And  when  storms  sweep 
The  wintry,  lowering  sky, 

For  whom  thou  wak’st  and  weepest? 

0,  when  thy  pangs  lire  deepest, 

Seek  then  the  covenant  ark  of  prayer ; 

For  He  that  slumbereth  not  is  there — 
His  ear  is  open  to  thy  cry. 

0,  then,  on  prayerless  bed 
Lay  not  thy  thoughtless  head. 


Arouse  thee,  weary  soul,  nor  yield  to  slum- 
ber, 

Till  in  communion  blest 

With  the  elect  ye  rest — 

Those  souls  of  countless  number; 

And  with  them  raise 
The  note  of  praise, 

Reaching  from  earth  to  heaven — 
Chosen,  redeemed,  forgiven ; 

So  lay  thy  happy  head, 
Prayer-crowned,  on  blessed  bed. 

Margaret  Mercer. 


HYMN. 

When  the  angels  all  are  singing 
All  of  glory  ever-springing, 

In  the  ground  of  heaven’s  high  graces, 
Where  all  virtues  have  their  places, 

O that  my  poor  soul  were  near  them, 
With  an  humble  faith  to  hear  them ! 

Then  should  faith,  in  love’s  submission, 
Joying  but  in  mercy’s  blessing, 

Where  that  sins  are  in  remission 
Sing  the  joyful  soul’s  confessing — 

Of  her  comforts  high  commending, 

All  in  glory  never-ending. 

But,  ah  wretched  sinful  creature ! 

How  should  the  corrupted  nature 
Of  this  wicked  heart  of  mine 
Think  upon  that  love  <jlivine, 

That  doth  tune  the  angels’  voices 
While  the  host  of  heaven  rejoices  ? 

No ! the  song  of  deadly  sorrow 
In  the  night  that  hath  no  morrow — 
And  their  pains  are  never  ended 
That  have  heavenly  powers  offended — 
Is  more  fitting  to  the  merit 
Of  my  foul  infected  spirit. 

Yet  while  mercy  is  removing 
All  the  sorrows  of  the  loving, 

How  can  faith  be  full  of  blindness 
To  despair  of  mercy’s  kindness — 

While  the  hand  of  heaven  is  giving 
Comfort  from  the  Ever-living  ? 


LOYE. 


755 


No,  my  soul,  be  no  more  sorry — 

Look  unto  that  life  of  glory 
Which  the  grace  of  faith  regardeth, 

And  the  tears  of  love  rewardeth — 
Where  the  soul  the  comfort  getteth 
That  the  angels’  music  setteth. 

There — when  thou  art  well  conducted, 
And  by  heavenly  grace  instructed 
How  the  faithful  thoughts  to  fashion 
Of  a ravished  lover’s  passion — 

Sing  with  saints,  to  angels  nighest, 
Hallelujah  in  the  highest. 

Gloria  in  Excelsis  Domino  ! 

Nicholas  Breton. 


“O  YET  WE  TRUST.” 

0,  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 

To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 
Defects  of  doubt  and  taints  of  blood ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroyed, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete ; 

That  not  a worm  is  cloven  in  vain ; 

That  not  a moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivelled  in  a fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another’s  gain. 

Behold ! we  know  not  any  thing ; 

I can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last — far  off— at  last,  to  all — 
And  every  Winter  change  to  Spring. 

So  runs  ray  dream : but  what  am  I ? 

An  infant  crying  in  the  night — 

An  infant  crying  for  the  light — 

And  with  no  language  but  a cry. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


MARY. 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer ; 

Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But — he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 
And  He  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother’s  face, 
And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 

All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 

Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour’s  feet 
With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 
Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs  ? 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


LOYE. 

Had  I the  tongues  of  Greeks  and  Jews, 
And  nobler  speech  than  angels  use, 

If  love  be  absent  I am  found 
Like  tinkling  brass,  an  empty  sound. 

Were  I inspired  to  preach,  and  tell 
All  that  is  done  in  heaven  and  hell — 
Or  could  my  faith  the  world  remove, 
Still  I am  nothing  without  love. 

Should  I distribute  all  my  store 
To  feed  the  bowels  of  the  poor, 

Or  give  my  body  to  the  flame 
To  gain  a martyr’s  glorious  name — 

If  love  to  God,  and  love  to  men, 

Be  absent,  all  my  hopes  are  vain ; 

Nor  tongues,  nor  gifts,  nor  fiery  zeal, 
The  work  of  love  can  e’er  fulfil. 


Isaac  Watts. 


756 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


CHARITY. 

Could  I command,  with  voice  or  pen, 
The  tongues  of  angels  and  of  men, 

A tinkling  cymbal,  sounding  brass, 

My  speech  and  preaching  would  surpass ; 
Yain  were  such  eloquence  to  me, 
Without  the  grace  of  charity. 

Could  I the  martyr’s  flame  endure, 

Give  all  my  goods  to  feed  the  poor — 
Had  I the  faith  from  Alpine  steep 
To  hurl  the  mountain  to  the  deep — 
What  were  such  zeal,  such  power,  to  me 
Without  the  grace  of  charity  ? 

Could  I behold  with  prescient  eye 
Things  future,  as  the  things  gone  by — 
Could  I all  earthly  knowledge  scan, 

And  mete  out  heaven  with  a span — 

Poor  were  the  chief  of  gifts  to  me 
Without  the  chiefest — charity. 

Charity  suffers  long,  is  kind — 

Charity  bears  a humble  mind — 

Rejoices  not  when  ills  befall, 

But  glories  in  the  weal  of  all ; 

She  hopes,  believes,  and  envies  not, 

Nor  vaunts,  nor  murmurs  o’er  her  lot. 

The  tongues  of  teachers  shall  be  dumb, 
Prophets  discern  not  things  to  come, 
Knowledge  shall  vanish  out  of  thought, 
And  miracles  no  more  be  wrought ; 

But  charity  shall  never  fail — 

Her  anchor  is  within  the  veil. 

James  Montgomery. 


FOR  THOSE  THAT  WAIT  FOR  FULL 
REDEMPTION. 

Light  of  life, — seraphic  fire, — 

Love  divine, — Thyself  impart ! 

Every  fainting  soul  inspire ; 

Shine  in  every  drooping  heart ; 
Every  mournful  sinner  cheer ; 

Scatter  all  our  guilty  gloom ; 

Son  of  God,  appear ! appear  ! — 

To  Thine  human  temples  ccme. 


Come  in  this  accepted  hour — 

Bring  Thine  heavenly  kingdom  in ; 

Fill  us  with  the  glorious  power 
Rooting  out  the  seeds  of  sin. 

Nothing  more  can  we  require, — 

We  will  covet  nothing  less ; 

Thou  art  all  our  heart’s  desire, — 

All  our  joy,  and  all  our  peace. 

Whom  but  Thee  have  we  in  heaven — 
Whom  have  we  on  earth  but  Thee  ? 

Only  Thou  to  us  be  given — 

All  besides  is  vanity ; 

Grant  us  love,  we  ask  no  more — 

Every  other  gift  remove ; 

Pleasure,  fame,  and  wealth,  and  power, 
Still  we  all  enjoy  in  love. 

Charles  Wesley. 


FOR  BELIEVERS. 

Thou  hidden  source  of  calm  repose, 
Thou  all-sufficient  Love  divine, 

My  help  and  refuge  from  my  foes, 

Secure  I am  if  Thou  art  mine ! 

And  lo ! from  sin,  and  grief,  and  shame, 
I hide  me,  Jesus,  in  Thy  name. 

Thy  mighty  name  salvation  is, 

And  keeps  my  happy  soul  above ; 
Comfort  it  brings,  and  power,  and  peace, 
And  joy,  and  everlasting  love ; 

To  me,  with  Thy  dear  name,  are  given 
Pardon,  and  holiness,  and  heaven. 

Jesus,  my  all  in  all  Thou  art — 

My  rest  in  toil,  my  ease  in  pain ; 

The  medicine  of  my  broken  heart ; 

In  war  my  peace  ; in  loss  my  gain ; 

My  smile  beneath  the  tyrant’s  frown ; 

In  shame  my  glory  and  my  crown  ; 

In  want  my  plentiful  supply ; 

In  weakness  my  almighty  power ; 

In  bonds  my  perfect  liberty ; 

My  light  in  Satan’s  darkest  hour ; 

In  grief  my  joy  unspeakable; 

My  life  in  death,  my  heaven  in  hell. 

Charles  Wesley 


r 


DIVINE  LOVE. 


151 


DESIRING  TO  LOVE. 

0 love  divine,  how  sweet  Thou  art ! 
"When  shall  I find  my  willing  heart 

All  taken  up  by  Thee  ? 

1 thirst,  and  faint,  and  die  to  prove 
The  greatness  of  redeeming  love, — 

The  love  of  Christ  to  me. 

Stronger  His  love  than  death  or  hell ; 

Its  riches  are  unsearchable ; 

The  first-born  sons  of  light 
Desire  in  vain  its  depth  to  see — 

They  cannot  reach  the  mystery, 

The  length,  and  breadth,  and  height. 

God  only  knows  the  love  of  God — 

0 that  it  now  were  shed  abroad 
In  this  poor  stony  heart ! 

For  love  I sigh,  for  love  I pine ; 

This  only  portion,  Lord,  be  mine — 

Be  mine  this  better  part. 

0 that  I could  for  ever  sit 
With  Mary  at  the  Master’s  feet ! 

Be  this  my  happy  choice — 

My  only  care,  delight,  and  bliss, 

My  joy,  my  heaven  on  earth,  he  this — 
To  hear  the  Bridegroom’s  voice. 

0 that,  with  humbled  Peter,  I 
Could  weep,  believe,  and  thrice  reply, 
My  faithfulness  to  prove ! 

Thou  knowest,  for  all  to  Thee  is  known — 
Thou  knowest,  O Lord,  and  Thou  alone — 
Thou  knowest  that  Thee  I love. 

O that  I could,  with  favored  John, 
Recline  my  weary  head  upon 
The  dear  Redeemer’s  breast ! 

From  care,  and  sin,  and  sorrow  free, 
Give  me,  O Lord,  to  find  in  Thee 
My  everlasting  rest ! 

Thy  only  love  do  I require — 

Nothing  in  earth  beneath  desire, 
Nothing  in  heaven  above ; 

Let  earth  and  heaven  and  all  things  go — 
Give  me  Thy  only  love  to  know, 

Give  me  Thy  only  love  ! 

Charles  Wesley. 


DIVINE  LOVE. 

Thou  hidden  love  of  God ! whose  height, 
Whose  depth  unfathomed,  no  man  knows — 
I see  from  far  Thy  beauteous  light, 

Inly  I sigh  for  thy  repose. 

My  heart  is  pained ; nor  can  it  be 
At  rest  till  it  finds  rest  in  Thee. 

Thy  secret  voice  invites  me  still 
The  sweetness  of  Thy  yoke  to  prove ; 

And  fain  I would  ; but  though  my  will 
Seem  fixed,  yet  wide  my  passions  rove ; 
Yet  hindrances  strew  all  the  way — 

I aim  at  Thee,  yet  from  Thee  stray. 

’T  is  mercy  all,  that  Thou  hast  brought 
My  mind  to  seek  her  peace  in  Thee ! 

Yet  while  I seek,  but  find  Thee  not, 

No  peace  my  wandering  soul  shall  see. 

O when  shall  all  my  wanderings  end, 

And  all  my  steps  to  Theeward  tend  ? 

Is  there  a thing  beneath  the  sun 
That  strives  with  Thee  my  heart  to  share  ? 
Ah,  tear  it  thence,  and  reign  alone — 

The  Lord  of  every  motion  there ! 

Then  shall  my  heart  from  earth  be  free, 
When  it  hath  found  repose  in  Thee. 

0 hide  this  self  from  me,  that  I 
No  more,  but  Christ  in  me,  may  live ! 

My  vile  affections  crucify, 

Nor  let  one  darling  lust  survive ! 

In  all  things  nothing  may  I see, 

Nothing  desire  or  seek,  but  Thee 

0 Love,  Thy  sovereign  aid  impart 
To  save  me  from  low-thouglited  care , 
Chase  this  self-will  through  all  my  heart, 
Through  all  its  latent  mazes  there  ; 

Make  me  Thy  duteous  child,  that  I 
Ceaseless  may  “Abba,  Father,”  cry! 

Ah,  no  ! ne’er  will  I backward  turn — 

Thine  wholly,  Thine  alone  I am ; 

Thrice  happy  he  who  views  with  scorn 
Earth’s  toys,  for  Thee  his  constant  flame. 

0 help,  that  I may  never  move 
From  the  blest  footsteps  of  Thy  love  ! 


*758 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Each  moment  draw  from  earth  away 
My  heart,  that  lowly  waits  Thy  call ; 
Speak  to  my  inmost  sonl,  and  say 
“ I am  thy  Love,  thy  God,  thy  All ! ” 

To  feel  Thy  power,  to  hear  Thy  voice, 

To  taste  Thy  love,  he  all  my  choice. 

Gebhaed  Tebsteegen.  (German.) 
Translation  of  John  Wesley. 


LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 

In  the  honr  of  my  distress, 

When  temptations  me  oppress, 

And  when  I my  sins  confess, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  I lie  within  my  bed, 

Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  in  head, 

And  with  doubts  discomforted, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep, 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

WLen  the  artless  doctor  sees 
No  one  hope,  but  of  his  fees, 

And  his  skill  runs  on  the  lees, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  his  potion  and  his  pill, 

His  or  none  or  little  skill, 

Meet  for  nothing,  but  to  kill — 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  passing  bell  doth  toll, 

And  the  Furies,  in  a shoal, 

Come  to  fright  a parting  soul, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue, 

And  the  comforters  are  few, 

And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I nod  to  what  is  said 
Because  my  speech  is  now  decayed, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 


When,  God  knows,  I ’m  tost  about 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt, 

Yet  before  the  glass  be  out, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  Tempter  me  pursu’th 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 

And  half  damns  me  with  untruth, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears,  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed, 

And  that  opened  which  was  sealed — 
When  to  Thee  I have  appealed, 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me ! 

Robebt  Hebbick. 


0!  FEAR  NOT  THOU  TO  DIE. 

0 feae  not  thou  to  die — 

Far  rather  fear  to  live! — for  life 
Has  thousand  snares  thy  feet  to  try, 

By  peril,  pain,  and  strife. 

Brief  is  the  work  of  death ; 

But  life— the  spirit  shrinks  to  see 
How  full,  ere  heaven  recalls  the  breath, 
The  cup  of  woe  may  be. 

0 fear  not  thou  to  die — 

No  more  to  suffer  or  to  sin — 

No  snare  without,  thy  faith  to  try — 

No  traitor  heart  within ; 

But  fear,  O rather  fear 
The  gay,  the  light,  the  changeful  scene 
The  flattering  smiles  that  greet  thee  here, 
From  heaven  thy  heart  to  wean. 

O fear  not  thou  to  die — 

To  die  and  be  that  blessed  one 
Who  in  the  bright  and  beauteous  sky 
May  feel  his  conflict  done — 

May  feel  that  never  more 

The  tear  of  grief,  of  shame,  shall  come, 

For  thousand  wanderings  from  the  Power 
Who  loved  and  called  thee  home. 


Anonymous. 


THE  VALEDICTION. 


159 


THE  DYING-  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 

Quit,  O quit  this  mortal  frame ! 

Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying — 

O the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 

Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 

And  let  me  languish  into  life ! 

Hark ! they  whisper : angels  say, 

Sister  spirit,  come  away ! 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 

Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 

Tell  me,  my  soul ! can  this  be  death  ? 


Or  is  it  youthful  rage, 

Or  childish  toying  ? 

Or  is  decrepit  age 

Worth  man’s  enjoying? 

Is  it  deceitful  wealth, 

Got  by  care,  fraud,  or  stealth, 
Or  short,  uncertain  health, 
Which  thus  befool  men  ? 

Or  do  the  serpent’s  lies, 

By  the  world’s  flatteries 
And  tempting  vanities, 

Still  overrule  them  ? 

Or  do  they  in  a dream 

Sleep  out  their  season  ? 

Or  borne  down  by  lust’s  stream, 
Which  conquers  reason  ? 


The  world  recedes— it  disappears ; 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes ; my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring : 

Lend,  lend  your  wings ! I mount,  I fly ! 
O Grave ! where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0 Death ! where  is  thy  sting  ? 

Alexander  Pope. 


THE  VALEDICTION. 

Vain  world,  what  is  in  thee  ? 
What  do  poor  mortals  see 
Which  should  esteemed  be 
Worthy  their  pleasure? 
Is  it  the  mother’s  womb, 

Or  sorrows  which  soon  come, 
Or  a dark  grave  and  tomb ; 

Which  is  their  treasure  ? 
How  dost  thou  man  deceive 
By  thy  vain  glory? 

Why  do  they  still  believe 
Thy  false  history  ? 

Is  it  children’s  book  and  rod, 
The  laborer’s  heavy  load, 
Poverty  undertrod, 

The  world  desireth  ? 

Is  it  distracting  cares, 

Or  heart-tormenting  fears, 

Or  pining  grief  and  tears, 
Which  man  requireth  ? 


The  silly  lambs  to-day 
Pleasantly  skip  and  play, 

Whom  butchers  mean  to  slay, 
Perhaps  to-morrow ; 

In  a more  brutish  sort 
Do  careless  sinners  sport, 

Or  in  dead  sleep  still  snort, 

As  near  to  sorrow ; 

Till  life,  not  well  begun, 

Be  sadly  ended, 

And  the  web  they  have  spun 
Can  ne’er  be  mended. 

What  is  the  time  that ’s  gone, 
And  what  is  that  to  come  ? 

Is  it  not  now  as  none  ? 

The  present  stays  not. 

Time  posteth,  O how  fast ! 
Unwelcome  death  makes  haste ; 
None  can  call  back  what ’s  past— 
Judgment  delays  not ; 
Though  God  bring  in  the  light, 
Sinners  awake  not — 
Because  hell ’s  out  of  sight, 

They  sin  forsake  not. 

Man  walks  in  a vain  show ; 

They  know,  yet  will  not  know ; 
Sit  still  when  they  should  go— 
But  run  for  shadows, 

While  they  might  taste  and  know 
The  living  streams  that  flow, 

And  crop  the  flowers  that  grow, 
In  Christ’s  sweet  meadows. 


760 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Life ’s  better  slept  away 
Than  as  they  use  it ; 

In  sin  and  drunken  play 
Vain  men  abuse  it. 

Malignant  world,  adieu! 

Where  no  foul  vice  is  new — 

Only  to  Satan  true, 

God  still  offended ; 

Though  taught  and  warned  by  God, 
And  His  chastising  rod, 

Keeps  still  the  way  that ’s  broad, 
Never  amended. 

Baptismal  vows  some  make, 

But  ne’er  perform  them ; 

If  angels  from  heaven  spake, 

’T would  not  reform  them. 

They  dig  for  hell  beneath, 

They  labor  hard  for  death, 

Run  themselves  out  of  breath 
To  overtake  it. 

Hell  is  not  had  for  naught, 
Damnation ’s  dearly  bought, 

And  with  great  labor  sought — 

They  ’ll  not  forsake  it. 

Their  souls  are  Satan’s  fee — 

He  ’ll  not  abate  it. 

Grace  is  refused  that ’s  free — 

Mad  sinners  hate  it. 

Vile  man  is  so  perverse, 

It ’s  too  rough  work  for  verse 
His  badness  to  rehearse, 

And  show  his  folly ; 

He  ’ll  die  at  any  rates — 

He  God  and  conscience  hates, 

Yet  sin  he  consecrates, 

And  calls  it  holy. 

The  grace  he  ’ll  not  endure 
Which  would  renew  him — 
Constant  to  all,  and  sure, 

Which  will  undo  him. 

His  head  comes  first  at  birth, 

And  takes  root  in  the  earth — 

As  nature  shooteth  forth, 

His  feet  grow  highest, 

To  kick  at  all  above, 

And  spurn  at  saving  love ; 

His  God  is  in  his  grove, 

Because  it ’s  nighest ; 


He  loves  this  world  of  strife, 

Hates  that  would  mend  it ; 
Loves  death  that ’s  called  life, 

Fears  what  would  end  it. 

All  that  is  good  he ’d  crush, 

Blindly  on  sin  doth  rush — 

A pricking  thorny  bush, 

Such  Christ  was  crowned  with ; 
Their  worship ’s  like  to  this — 

The  reed,  the  Judas  kiss : 

Such  the  religion  is 

That  these  abound  with ; 

They  mock  Christ  with  the  knee 
Whene’er  they  bow  it — 

As  if  God  did  not  see 

The  heart,  and  know  it. 

Of  good  they  choose  the  least, 
Despise  that  which  is  best — 

The  joyful,  heavenly  feast 

Which  Christ  would  give  them ; 
Heaven  hath  scarce  one  cold  wish ; 
They  live  unto  the  flesh ; 

Like  swine  they  feed  on  wash- 
Satan  doth  drive  them. 

Like  weeds,  they  grow  in  mire 
Which  vices  nourish — 

Where,  warmed  by  Satan’s  fire, 

All  sins  do  flourish. 

Is  this  the  world  men  choose, 

For  which  they  heaven  refuse, 

And  Christ  and  grace  abuse, 

And  not  receive  it? 

Shall  I not  guilty  be 
Of  this  in  some  degree, 

If  hence  God  would  me  free, 

And  I ’d  not  leave  it  ? 

My  soul,  from  Sodom  fly, 

Lest  wrath  there  find  thee ; 

Thy  refuge-rest  is  nigh — 

Look  not  behind  thee  ! 

There ’s  none  of  this  ado, 

None  of  the  hellish  crew ; 

God’s  promise  is  most  true — 

Boldly  believe  it. 

My  friends  are  gone  before, 

And  I am  near  the  shore ; 

My  soul  stands  at  the  door — 

O Lord,  receive  it ! 


THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  GRATE. 


761 


It  trusts  Christ  and  His  merits— 
The  dead  He  raises ; 

Join  it  with  blessed  spirits 
Who  sing  Thy  praises. 

Richard  Baxter. 


HYMN. 

When  rising  from  the  bed  of  death, 
O’erwhelmed  with  guilt  and  fear, 

I see  my  Maker  face  to  face, 

0,  how  shall  I appear  ? 

If  yet  while  pardon  may  he  found, 

And  mercy  may  be  sought, 

My  heart  with  inward  horror  shrinks, 
And  trembles  at  the  thought — 

When  Thou,  O Lord,  shalt  stand  dis- 
closed 

In  majesty  severe, 

And  sit  in  judgment  on  my  soul, 

0,  how  shall  I appear  ? 

But  Thou  hast  told  the  troubled  soul, 
Who  does  her  sins  lament, 

The  timely  tribute  of  her  tears 
Shall  endless  woe  prevent. 

Then  see  the  sorrows  of  my  heart 
Ere  yet  it  be  too  late, 

And  hear  my  Saviour’s  dying  groans 
To  give  those  sorrows  weight. 

For  never  shall  my  soul  despair 
Her  pardon  to  procure, 

Who  knows  Thy  only  Son  has  died 
To  make  that  pardon  sure. 

Joseph  Addison. 


HYMN. 

Brother,  thou  art  gone  before  us, 

And  thy  saintly  soul  is  flown 
Where  tears  are  wiped  from  every  eye, 
And  sorrow  is  unknown — 

From  the  burden  of  the  flesh, 

And  from  care  and  sin  released, 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 


The  toilsome  way  thou  ’st  travelled  o’er, 
And  hast  borne  the  heavy  load ; 

But  Christ  hath  taught  thy  wandering  feet 
To  reach  His  blest  abode. 

Thou  ’rt  sleeping  now,  like  Lazarus, 

On  his  Father’s  faithful  breast, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Sin  can  never  taint  thee  now, 

Nor  can  doubt  thy  faith  assail ; 

Nor  thy  meek  trust  in  Jesus  Christ 
And  the  Holy  Spirit  fail. 

And  there  thou  ’rt  sure  to  meet  the  good, 
Whom  on  earth  thou  lovest  best, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

“ Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust,” 

Thus  the  solemn  priest  hath  said — 

So  we  lay  the  turf  above  thee  now, 

And  seal  thy  narrow  bed ; 

But  thy  spirit,  brother,  soars  away 
Among  the  faithful  blest, 

Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  summon  us 
Whom  thou  now  hast  left  behind, 

May  we,  untainted  by  the  world, 

As  sure  a welcome  find ; 

May  each,  like  thee,  depart  in  peace, 

To  be  a glorious,  happy  guest 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling, 
And  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

Henry  Hart  Milman. 


THOU  ART  GONE  TO  THE  GRAVE. 

Tiiou  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer 
deplore  thee, 

Though  sorrows  and  darkness  encompass 
the  tomb ; 

The  Saviour  has  passed  through  its  portals 
before  thee, 

And  tho  lamp  of  His  love  is  thy  guide 
through  the  gloom. 


*762 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — we  no  longer 
behold  thee, 

Nor  tread  the  rough  path  of  the  world  by 
thy  side ; 

But  the  wide  arms  of  mercy  are  spread  to  en- 
fold thee, 

And  sinners  may  hope,  since  the  Sinless  has 
died. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — and,  its  mansion 
forsaking, 

Perhaps  thy  tried  spirit  in  doubt  lingered 
long, 

But  the  sunshine  of  heaven  beamed  bright  on 
thy  waking, 

And  the  song  which  thou  heard’st  was  the 
seraphim’s  song. 

Thou  art  gone  to  the  grave — but ’t  were  wrong 
to  deplore  thee, 

"When  God  was  thy  ransom,  thy  guardian, 
thy  guide ; 

I He  gave  thee,  and  took  thee,  and  soon  will 
restore  thee, 

Where  death  hath  no  sting,  since  the  Sa- 
viour hath  died. 

Reginald  Hebeb. 


DEATH. 

Ah,  lovely  appearance  of  death ! 

What  sight  upon  earth  is  so  fair  ? 

Not  all  the  gay  pageants  that  breathe 
Can  with  a dead  body  compare ; 

With  solemn  delight  I survey 

The  corpse,  when  the  spirit  is  fled — 

In  love  with  the  beautiful  clay, 

And  longing  to  lie  in  its  stead. 

How  blest  is  our  brother,  bereft 
Of  all  that  could  burden  his  mind  ! 

How  easy  the  soul  that  has  left 
This  wearisome  body  behind ! 

Of  evil  incapable,  thou, 

Whose  relics  with  envy  I see — 

Ho  longer  in  misery  now, 

No  longer  a sinner  like  me. 


This  earth  is  affected  no  more 

With  sickness,  or  shaken  with  pain ; 

The  war  in  the  members  is  o’er, 

And  never  shall  vex  him  again ; 

No  anger  henceforward,  or  shame, 

Shall  redden  this  innocent  clay ; 

Extinct  is  the  animal  flame, 

And  passion  is  vanished  away. 

This  languishing  head  is  at  rest — • 

Its  thinking  and  aching  are  o’er ; 

This  quiet,  immovable  breast 
Is  heaved  by  affliction  no  more ; 

This  heart  is  no  longer  the  seat 
Of  trouble,  and  torturing  pain  ; 

It  ceases  to  flutter  and  beat — 

It  never  shall  flutter  again. 

The  lids  he  so  seldom  could  close, 

By  sorrow  forbidden  to  sleep — 

Sealed  up  in  their  mortal  repose, 

Have  strangely  forgotten  to  weep  ; 

The  fountains  can  yield  no  supplies — 
These  hollows  from  water  are  free ; 

The  tears  are  all  wiped  from  these  eyes, 
And  evil  they  never  shall  see. 

To  mourn  and  to  suffer  is  mine, 

While  bound  in  a prison  I breathe, 

And  still  for  deliverance  pine, 

And  press  to  the  issues  of  death  ; 

What  now  with  my  tears  I bedew 
O might  I this  moment  become ! 

My  spirit  created  anew, 

My  flesh  be  consigned  to  the  tomb  ! 

Chables  Wesley 


A DIRGE. 

“Eaeth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! ” 

Here  the  evil  and  the  just, 

Here  the  youthful  and  the  old, 

Here  the  fearful  and  the  bold, 

Here  the  matron  and  the  maid, 

In  one  silent  bed  are  laid ; 

Here  the  vassal  and  the  king 
Side  by  side  lie  withering ; 

Here  the  sword  and  sceptre  rust — 

“Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! ” 

1 


FOR  A WIDOWER  OR  WIDOW. 


763 


Age  on  age  shall  roll  along 
O’er  this  pale  and  mighty  throng ; 

Those  that  wept  them,  they  that  weep, 
All  shall  with  these  sleepers  sleep ; 
Brothers,  sisters  of  the  worm, 

Summer’s  sun,  or  Winter’s  storm, 

Song  of  peace,  or  battle’s  roar 
Ne’er  shall  break  their  slumbers  more ; 
Death  shall  keep  his  sullen  trust — 

“ Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! ” 

But  a day  is  coming  fast — 

Earth,  thy  mightiest  and  thy  last ! 

It  shall  come  in  fear  and  wonder, 
Heralded  by  trump  and  thunder ; 

It  shall  come  in  strife  and  toil, 

It  shall  come  in  blood  and  spoil ; 

It  shall  come  in  empire’s  groans, 

Burning  temples,  ruined  thrones ; 

Then,  Ambition,  rue  thy  lust ! 

“ Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! ” 

Then  shall  come  the  judgment  sign ; 

In  the  east  the  King  shall  shine, 
Flashing  from  heaven’s  golden  gate — 
Thousands,  thousands,  round  His  state — 
Spirits  with  the  crown  and  plume ; 
Tremble  then,  thou  sullen  tomb  ! 

Heaven  shall  open  on  thy  sight, 

Earth  he  turned  to  living  light — 
Kingdom  of  the  ransomed  just — 

“Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust.” 

Then  thy  mount,  Jerusalem, 

Shall  be  gorgeous  as  a gem  ! 

Then  shall  in  the  desert  rise 
Fruits  of  more  than  Paradise ; 

Earth  by  angel  feet  be  trod — 

One  great  garden  of  her  God ! 

Till  are  dried  the  martyr’s  tears, 
Through  a thousand  glorious  years ! 
Now  in  hope  of  Him  we  trust — 

“ Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust.” 

George  Croly. 


FOR  A WIDOWER  OR  WIDOW 

DEPEIVED  OF  A LOVING  YOKEFELLOW. 

How  near  me  came  the  hand  of  death, 
When  at  my  side  he  struck  my  dear, 

And  took  away  the  precious  breath 
Which  quickened  my  beloved  peer! 

How  helpless  am  I thereby  made — 

By  day  how  grieved,  by  night  how  sad ! 
And  now  my  life’s  delight  is  gone, 

Alas,  how  am  I left  alone ! 

The  voice  which  I did  more  esteem 
Than  music  in  her  sweetest  key, 

Those  eyes  which  unto  me  did  seem 
More  comfortable  than  the  day — 

Those  now  by  me,  as  they  have  been, 
Shall  never  more  he  heard  or  seen ; 

But  what  I once  enjoyed  in  them 
Shall  seem  hereafter  as  a dream. 

All  earthly  comforts  vanish  thus — 

So  little  hold  of  them  have  we 
That  we  from  them  or  they  from  us 
May  in  a moment  ravished  he ; 

Yet  we  are  neither  just  nor  wise 
If  present  mercies  we  despise, 

Or  mind  not  how  there  may  he  made 
A thankful  use  of  what  we  had. 

I therefore  do  not  so  bemoan, 

Though  these  beseeming  tears  I drop, 

The  loss  of  my  beloved  one 
As  they  that  are  deprived  of  hope ; 

But  in  expressing  of  my  grief 
My  heart  receiveth  some  relief, 

And  joyeth  in  the  good  I had, 

Although  my  sweets  are  hitter  made. 

Lord,  keep  me  faithful  to  the  trust 
Which  my  dear  spouse  reposed  in  mo ! 

To  him  now  dead  preserve  me  just 
In  all  that  should  performed  be ; 

For  though  our  being  man  and  wife 
Extendeth  only  to  this  life, 

Yet  neither  life  nor  death  should  end 
The  being  of  a faithful  friend. 


764 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Those  helps  which  I through  him  enjoyed, 
Let  Thy  continual  aid  supply — 

That,  though  some  hopes  in  him  are  void, 

I always  may  on  Thee  rely ; 

And  whether  I shall  wed  again, 

Or  in  a single  state  remain, 

Unto  Thine  honor  let  it  be, 

And  for  a blessing  unto  me. 

Geobge  Withee. 


THEY  ARE  ALL  GONE. 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 
And  I alone  sit  lingering  here ! 

Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear ; 

it  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove — 

Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest 
After  the  sun’s  remove. 

L see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days — 
My  days  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 
Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

0 holy  hope ! and  high  humility — 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  showed 
them  me 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  death  —the  jewel  of  the  just — 
Shining  nowhere  but  in  the  dark ! 

What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 

Could  man  outlook  that  mark ! 

He  that  hath  found  some  fledged  bird’s  nest 
may  know, 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown ; 

But  what  fair  dell  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 
That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul  when  man  doth  sleep, 

So  some  strange  thoughts  transcend  our 
wonted  themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 


If  a star  were  confined  into  a tomb, 

Her  captive  flames  must  needs  burn  there ; 
But  when  the  hand  that  locked  her  up  gives 
room, 

She  ’ll  shine  through  all  the  sphere. 

0 Father  of  eternal  life,  and  all 
Created  glories  under  Thee ! 

Resume  thy  spirit  from  this  world  of  thrall 
Into  true  liberty. 

Either  disperse  these  mists,  which  blot  and 
fifl 

My  perspective  still  as  they  pass  ; 

Or  else  remove  me  hence  unto  that  hill 
Where  I shall  need  no  glass. 

Henby  Vaughan. 


EACH  SORROWFUL  MOURNER. 

Each  sorrowful  mourner,  be  silent ! 

Fond  mothers,  give  over  your  weeping ! 
Nor  grieve  for  those  pledges  as  perished — 
This  dying  is  life’s  reparation. 

Now  take  him,  O earth,  to  thy  keeping, 
And  give  him  soft  rest  in  thy  bosom ; 

I lend  thee  the  frame  of  a Christian — 

I entrust  thee  the  generous  fragments. 

Thou  holily  guard  the  deposit — 

He  will  well,  He  will  surely,  require  it, 
Who,  forming  it,  made  its  creation 
The  type  of  His  image  and  likeness. 

But  until  the  resolvable  body 
Thou  recallest,  0 God,  and  reformest, 
What  regions,  unknown  to  the  mortal, 

Dost  Thou  will  the  pure  soul  to  inhabit  ? 

It  shall  rest  upon  Abraham’s  bosom, 

As  the  spirit  of  blest  Eleazar, 

Whom,  afar  in  that  Paradise,  Dives 
Beholds  from  the  flames  of  his  torments. 

We  follow  Thy  saying,  Redeemer, 
Whereby,  as  on  death  Thou  wast  trampling, 
The  thief,  Thy  companion,  Thou  willedst 
To  tread  in  Thy  footsteps  and  triumph. 


THE  HEAVENLY  CANAAN  765 

* 

To  the  faithful  the  bright  way  is  open, 

Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 

Henceforward,  to  Paradise  leading, 

Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

And  to  that  blessed  grove  we  have  access 

I shall  be  soon. 

Whereof  man  was  bereaved  by  the  serpent. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope  ! 

Thou  Leader  and  Guide  of  Thy  people, 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Give  command  that  the  soul  of  Thy  servant 

May  have  holy  repose  in  the  country 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

Whence,  exile  and  erring,  he  wandered. 

I shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 

We  will  honor  the  place  of  his  resting 

Beyond  this  pulse’s  fever-beating, 

With  violets  and  garlands  of  flowers, 

I shall  be  soon. 

And  will  sprinkle  inscription  and  marble 

Love,  rest , and  home  ! 

With  odors  of  costliest  fragrance. 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Aurelius  Prudentius.  (Latin.) 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Translation  of  John  Mason  Neale. 

Beyond  the  frost-chain  and  the  fever 
I shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  rock-waste  and  the  river, 

A LITTLE  WHILE. 

Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never, 
I shall  be  soon. 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 

Love , rest,  and  home  ! 

I shall  be  soon ; 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 

Horatius  Bonar. 

I shall  be  soon. 

• 

Love , rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  hope  ! 

Lord , tarry  not , but  come . 

THE  HEAVENLY  CANAAN. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading 

Theee  is  a land  of  pure  delight, 

I shall  be  soon ; 

Where  saints  immortal  reign ; 

Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 

Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 

Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

I shall  be  soon. 

Love , rest,  and  home  ! 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 

Sweet  hope  ! 

And  never-withering  flowers ; 

Lord , tarry  not , but  come. 

Death,  like  a narrow  sea,  divides 
This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting 
I shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting, 

Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 

Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 

Stand  dressed  in  living  green ; 

I shall  be  soon. 

So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 

Love,  rest , and  home  ! 

While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

Sweet  hope  ! 

Lord , tarry  not , but  come. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 
To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 

Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strowing 

And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 

I shall  be  soon ; 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


O ! could  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 
Those  gloomy  doubts  that  rise, 

And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 
With  unbeclouded  eyes — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o’er, 

Not  Jordan’s  stream,  nor  death’s  cold 
flood, 

Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 

Isaac  "Watts. 


THE  NEW  JERUSALEM; 

OR,  THE  SOUL’S  BREATHING  AFTER  THE  HEAV- 
ENLY COUNTRY. 


“ Since  Christ’s  fair  truth  needs  no  man’s  art, 
Take  this  rude  song  in  better  part.” 

O mother  dear,  Jerusalem, 

When  shall  I come  to  thee  ? 

When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end — 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I see? 

O,  happy  harbor  of  God’s  saints ! 

O,  sweet  and  pleasant  soil ! 

In  thee  no  sorrows  can  be  found — 

No  grief,  no  care,  no  toil. 

In  thee  no  sickness  is  at  all, 

No  hurt  nor  any  sore ; 

There  is  no  death  nor  ugly  night, 

But  life  for  evermore. 

No  dimming  cloud  o’ershadows  thee, 
No  cloud  nor  darksome  night, 

But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun— 

For  God  himself  gives  light. 

There  lust  and  lucre  cannot  dwell, 
There  envy  bears  no  sway ; 

There  is  no  hunger,  thirst,  nor  heat, 
But  pleasures  every  way. 

Jerusalem ! Jerusalem ! 

Would  God  I were  in  thee ! 

O that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

Thy  joys  that  I might  see ! 


No  pains,  no  pangs,  no  grieving  grief, 

No  woful  night  is  there ; 

No  sigh,  no  sob,  no  cry  is  heard — 

No  well-away,  no  fear. 

Jerusalem  the  city  is 
Of  God  our  King  alone ; 

The  Lamb  of  God,  the  light  thereof, 

Sits  there  upon  His  throne. 

O God ! that  I Jerusalem 
With  speed  may  go  behold ! 

For  why  ? the  pleasures  there  abound 
Which  here  cannot  be  told. 

Thy  turrets,  and  thy  pinnacles, 

With  carbuncles  do  shine — 

With  jasper,  pearl,  and  chrysolite, 
Surpassing  pure  and  fine. 

Thy  houses  are  of  ivory, 

Thy  windows  crystal  clear, 

Thy  streets  are  laid  with  beaten  gold— 
There  angels  do  appear. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone, 
Thy  bulwarks  diamond  square, 

Thy  gates  are  made  of  orient  pearl— 

O God ! if  I were  there ! 

Within  thy  gates  nothing  can  come 
That  is  not  passing  clean ; 

No  spider’s  web,  no  dirt,  nor  dust, 

No  filth  may  there  be  seen. 

Jehovah,  Lord,  now  come  away, 

And  end  my  griefs  and  plaints — 

Take  me  to  Thy  Jerusalem, 

And  place  me  with  Thy  saints ! 

Who  there  are  crowned  with  glory  great, 
And  see  God  face  to  face, 

They  triumph  still,  and  aye  rejoice— 
Most  happy  is  their  case. 

But  we  that  are  in  banishment, 
Continually  do  moan ; 

We  sigh,  we  mourn,  we  sob,  we  weep— 
Perpetually  we  groan. 

Our  sweetness  mixed  is  with  gall. 

Our  pleasures  are  but  pain, 

Our  joys  not  worth  the  looking  on — 

Our  sorrows  aye  remain. 


THE  NEW  JERUSALEM. 


767 


But  there  they  live  in  such  delight, 

Such  pleasure  and  such  play, 

That  unto  them  a thousand  years 
Seems  but  as  yesterday. 

0 my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem ! 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I see — 

Thy  King  sitting  upon  His  throne, 

And  thy  felicity  ? 

Thy  vineyards,  and  thy  orchards, 

So  wonderfully  rare, 

Are  furnished  with  all  kinds  of  fruit, 

Most  beautifully  fair. 

Thy  gardens,  and  thy  goodly  walks, 
Continually  are  green ; 

There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 
As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

There  cinnamon  and  sugar  grow, 

There  nard  and  halm  abound ; 

NTo  tongue  can  tell,  no  heart  can  think, 
The  pleasures  there  are  found. 

There  nectar  and  ambrosia  spring — 

There  music ’s  ever  sweet ; 

There  many  a fair  and  dainty  thing 
Are  trod  down  under  feet. 

Quite  through  the  streets,  with  pleasant 
sound, 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow  ; 

Upon  the  banks,  on  every  side, 

The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 

These  trees  each  month  yield  ripened 
fruit — 

For.  evermore  they  spring; 

And  all  the  nations  of  the  world 
To  thee  their  honors  bring. 

Jerusalem,  God’s  dwelling  place 
Full  sore  I long  to  see ; 

O that  my  sorrows  had  an  end, 

That  I might  dwell  in  thee ! 

There  David  stands,  with  harp  in  hand, 

As  master  of  the  choir ; 

A thousand  times  that  man  were  blest 
That  might  his  music  hear. 

There  Mary  sings  “ Magnificat,” 

With  tunes  surpassing  sweet ; 

And  all  the  virgins  bear  their  part, 

Singing  about  her  feet. 


“ Te  Deum”  doth  St.  Ambrose  sing, 

St.  Austin  doth  the  like ; 

Old  Simeon  and  Zacharie 
Have  not  their  songs  to  seek. 

There  Magdalene  hath  left  her  moan, 
And  cheerfully  doth  sing, 

With  all  blest  saints  whose  harmony 
Through  every  street  doth  ring. 

Jerusalem!  Jerusalem! 

Thy  joys  fain  would  I see  ; 

Come  quickly,  Lord,  and  end  my  grief, 
And  take  me  home  to  Thee ! 

O paint  Thy  name  on  my  forehead, 
And  take  me  hence  away, 

That  I may  dwell  with  Thee  in  bliss, 
And  sing  Thy  praises  aye. 

Jerusalem,  the  happy  home — 
Jehovah’s  throne  on  high ! 

O sacred  city,  queen,  and  wife 
Of  Christ  eternally ! 

0 comely  queen  with  glory  clad, 

With  honor  and  degree, 

All  fair  thou  art,  exceeding  bright — 
No  spot  there  is  in  thee! 

1 long  to  see  Jerusalem, 

The  comfort  of  us  all ; 

For  thou  art  fair  and  beautiful — 

None  ill  can  thee  befall. 

In  thee,  Jerusalem,  I say, 

No  darkness  dare  appear — 

No  night,  no  shade,  no  winter  foul — 
No  time  doth  alter  there. 

No  candle  needs,  no  moon  to  shine, 

No  glittering  star  to  light ; 

For  Christ,  the  King  of  Righteousness, 
For  ever  shineth  bright. 

A Lamb  unspotted,  white  and  pure, 

To  thee  doth  stand  in  lieu 

Of  light — so  great  the  glory  is 
Thine  Heavenly  King  to  view. 

He  is  the  King  of  kings,  beset 
In  midst  His  servants’  sight ; 

And  they,  His  happy  household  all, 

Do  serve  Him  day  and  night. 

There,  there  the  choir  of  angels  sing — 
There  the  supernal  sort 

Of  citizens,  which  hence  arc  rid 
From  dangers  deep,  do  sport. 


*768 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


There  be  the  prudent  prophets  all, 

The  apostles  six  and  six, 

The  glorious  martyrs  in  a row, 

And  confessors  betwixt. 

There  doth  the  crew  of  righteous  men 
And  matrons  all  consist — 

Young  men  and  maids  that  here  on  earth 
Their  pleasures  did  resist. 

The  sheep  and  lambs,  that  hardly  ’scaped 
The  snare  of  death  and  hell, 

Triumph  in  joy  eternally, 

Whereof  no  tongue  can  tell ; 

And  though  the  glory  of  each  one 
Doth  differ  in  degree, 

Yet  is  the  joy  of  all  alike 
And  common,  as  we  see. 

There  love  and  charity  do  reign, 

And  Christ  is  all  in  all, 

Whom  they  most  perfectly  behold 
In  joy  celestial. 

They  love,  they  praise — they  praise,  they 
love; 

They  “Holy,  holy,”  cry; 

They  neither  toil,  nor  faint,  nor  end, 

But  laud  continually. 

0 happy  thousand  times  were  I, 

If,  after  wretched  days, 

1 might  with  listening  ears  conceive 
Those  heavenly  songs  of  praise, 

Which  to  the  Eternal  King  are  sung 
By  happy  wights  above — 

By  saved  souls  and  angels  sweet, 

Who  love  the  God  of  love. 

O passing  happy  were  my  state, 

Might  I be  worthy  found 
To  wait  upon  my  God  and  King, 

His  praises  there  to  sound ; 

And  to  enjoy  my  Christ  above, 

His  favor  and  His  grace, 

According  to  His  promise  made, 

Which  here  I interlace : 

“ O Father  dear,”  quoth  He,  “ let  them 
Which  Thou  hast  put  of  old 
To  me,  be  there  where  lo ! I am — 

Thy  glory  to  behold ; 


Which  I with  Thee,  before  the  world 
Was  made  in  perfect  wise, 

Have  had — from  whence  the  fountain 
great 

Of  glory  doth  arise.” 

Again : “If  any  man  will  serve 
Thee,  let  him  fellow  me ; 

For  where  I am,  he  there,  right  sure, 

Then  shall  my  servant  be.” 

And  still : “ If  any  man  loves  me, 

Him  loves  my  Father  dear, 

Whom  I do  love — to  him  myself 
In  glory  will  appear.” 

Lord,  take  away  my  misery. 

That  then  I may  be  bold 
With  Thee,  in  Thy  Jerusalem, 

Thy  glory  to  behold ; 

And  so  in  Zion  see  my  King, 

My  love,  my  Lord,  my  all — 

Where  now  as  in  a glass  I see, 

There  face  to  face  I shall. 

0 blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart — 

Their  Sovereign  they  shall  see ; 

0 ye  most  happy,  heavenly  wights, 

Which  of  God’s  household  be ! 

O Lord,  with  speed  dissolve  my  bands, 
These  gins  and  fetters  strong ; 

For  I have  dwelt  within  the  tents 
Of  Kedar  over  long. 

Yet  search  me,  Lord,  and  find  me  out ! 

Fetch  me  Thy  fold  unto, 

That  all  Thy  angels  may  rejoice, 

While  all  Thy  will  I do. 

O mother  dear!  Jerusalem! 

When  shall  I come  to  thee  ? 

When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end, 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I see? 

Yet  once  again  I pray  Thee,  Lord, 

To  quit  me  from  all  strife, 

That  to  Thy  hill  I may  attain, 

And  dwell  there  all  my  life — 

With  cherubims  and  seraphims 
And  holy  souls  of  men, 

To  sing  Thy  praise,  O God  of  Hosts ! 
Forever  and  Amen! 


Anonymous. 


THE  FUTURE  PEACE  AND 


PEACE. 

My  son],  there  is  a country 
Afar  beyond  the  stars, 

Where  stands  a winged  sentry, 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 

There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  Peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 
And  One  born  in  a manger 
Commands  the  beauteous  files. 

He  is  thy  gracious  friend, 

And  (0  my  soul  awake !) 

Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 

If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace — 
The  rose  that  cannot  wither — 

Thy  fortress,  and  thy  ease. 

Leave,  then,  thy  foolish  ranges ; 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 

But  One  who  never  changes — 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


OF  HEAVEN. 

0 beauteous  God!  uncircumscribed  treasure 
Of  an  eternal  pleasure ! 

Thy  throne  is  seated  far 
Above  the  highest  star, 

Where  Thou  preparest  a glorious  place, 
Within  the  brightness  of  Thy  face, 

For  every  spirit 
To  inherit 

That  builds  his  hopes  upon  Thy  merit, 

And  loves  Thee  with  a holy  charity. 

What  ravished  heart,  seraphic  tongue,  or 
eyes 

Clear  as  the  morning  rise, 

Can  speak,  or  think,  or  see 
That  bright  eternity, 

Where  the  great  King’s  transparent  throne 
Is  of  an  entire  jasper  stone  ? 

There  the  eye 
0’  the  chrysolite, 

And  a sky 

Of  diamonds,  rubies,  chrysoprase — 

And  above  all,  Thy  holy  face — 

Makes  an  eternal  charity. 

49 


GLORY  OF  THE  CHURCH.  76S 

When  Thou  Thy  jewels  up  dost  bind,  that 
day 

Remember  us  we  pray — 

That  where  the  beryl  lies, 

And  the  crystal  ’bove  the  skies, 

There  Thou  mayest  appoint  us  place 
Within  the  brightness  of  Thy  face — 

And  our  soul 
In  the  scroll 

Of  life  and  blissfulness  enroll, 

That  we  may  praise  Thee  to  eternity.  Al- 
lelujah ! 

Jeremy  Taylor. 


“ WHEN  I CAN  READ  MY  TITLE 
CLEAR.” 

When  I can  read  my  title  clear 
To  mansions  in  the  skies, 

I ’ll  bid  farewell  to  ev’ry  fear, 

And  wipe  my  weeping  eyes. 

Should  earth  against  my  soul  engage, 
And  hellish  darts  be  hurled, 

Then  I can  smile  at  Satan’s  rage, 

And  face  a frowning  world. 

Let  cares  like  a wild  deluge  come, 

And  storms  of  sorrow  fall — 

May  I but  safely  reach  my  home, 

My  God,  my  heaven,  my  all ! 

There  shall  I bathe  my  weary  soul 
In  seas  of  heavenly  rest, 

And  not  a wave  of  trouble  roll 
Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

Isaac  Watts. 


THE  FUTURE  PEACE  AND  GLORY  OF 
THE  CHURCH. 

Hear  what  God  the  Lord  hath  spoken : 
“ 0 my  people,  faint  and  few, 
Comfortless,  afflicted,  broken, 

Fair  abodes  I build  for  you ; 

Thorns  of  heartfelt  tribulation 
Shall  no  more  perplex  your  ways ; 

You  shall  name  your  walls  salvation, 
And  your  gates  shall  all  be  praise. 


770  POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


“ There,  like  streams  that  feed  the  garden, 
Pleasures  without  end  shall  flow ; 

For  the  Lord,  your  faith  rewarding, 

All  His  bounty  shall  bestow. 

Still  in  undisturbed  possession 
Peace  and  righteousness  shall  reign ; 

Never  shall  you  feel  oppression, 

Hear  the  voice  of  war  again. 

“ Ye  no  more  your  suns  descending, 
Waning  moons,  no  more  shall  see ; 

But,  your  griefs  for  ever  ending, 

Find  eternal  noon  in  me. 

God  shall  rise,  and,  shining  o’er  you, 
Change  to  day  the  gloom  of  night ; 

He,  the  Lord,  shall  be  your  glory, 

God  your  everlasting  light.” 

William  Cowper. 


THE  WILDERNESS  TRANSFORMED. 

Amazing,  beauteous  change ! 

A world  created  new ! 

My  thoughts  with  transport  range, 
The  lovely  scene  to  view ; 

In  all  I trace, 

Saviour  divine, 

The  work  is  Thine — 

Be  Thine  the  praise ! 

See  crystal  fountains  play 
Amidst  the  burning  sands ; 

The  river’s  winding  way 
Shines  through  the  thirsty  lands ; 
New  grass  is  seen, 

And  o’er  the  meads 
Its  carpet  spreads 
Of  living  green. 

Where  pointed  brambles  grew, 
Entwined  with  horrid  thorn, 

Gay  flowers,  for  ever  new, 

The  painted  fields  adorn — 

The  blushing  rose 
And  lily  there, 

In  union  fair 
Their  sweets  disclose. 


Where  the  bleak  mountain  stood 
All  bare  and  disarrayed, 

See  the  wide-branching  wood 
Diffuse  its  grateful  shade ; 

Tall  cedars  nod, 

And  oaks  and  pines, 

And  elms  and  vines 
Confess  the  God. 

The  tyrants  of  the  plain 
Their  savage  chase  give  o’er — 

No  more  they  rend  the  slain, 

And  thirst  for  blood  no  more ; 

But  infant  hands 
Fierce  tigers  stroke, 

And  lions  yoke 
In  flowery  bands. 

O when,  Almighty  Lord, 

Shall  these  glad  scenes  arise, 

To  verify  Thy  word, 

And  bless  our  wondering  eyes ! 

That  earth  may  raise, 

With  all  its  tongues, 

United  songs 
Of  ardent  praise. 

Philip  Doddridge. 


ALL  WELL. 

No  seas  again  shall  sever, 

No  desert  intervene ; 

No  deep,  sad-flowing  river 
Shall  roll  its  tide  between. 

No  bleak  cliffs,  upward  towering, 
Shall  bound  our  eager  sight ; 

No  tempest,  darkly  lowering, 
Shall  wrap  us  in  its  night. 

Love,  and  unsevered  union 
Of  soul  with  those  we  love, 

Nearness  and  glad  communion, 
Shall  be  our  joy  above. 

No  dread  of  wasting  sickness, 

No  thought  of  ache  or  pain, 

No  fretting  hours  of  weakness, 
Shall  mar  our  peace  again. 


No  death,  our  homes  o’ershading, 
Shall  e’er  our  harps  unstring ; 

For  all  is  life  unfading 
In  presence  of  our  King. 

Hobatius  Bonar. 


PRAISE  TO  GOD. 

Praise  to  God,  immortal  praise, 

For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days — 
Bounteous  source  of  every  joy, 

Let  Thy  praise  our  tongues  employ ! 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 

For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 

For  the  vine’s  exalted  juice, 

For  the  generous  olive’s  use ; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain, 

Yellow  sheaves  of  ripened  grain, 

Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse — 

All  that  Spring,  with  bounteous  hand, 
Scatters  o’er  the  smiling  land ; 

All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o’erflowing  stores : 

These  to  Thee,  my  God,  we  owe — 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow ! 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear — 
Should  the  fig-tree’s  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit — 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more, 

Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store — 

Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall — 

Should  Thine  altered  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain, 

Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy, 

And  the  rising  year  destroy  ; 


Yet  to  Thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise, 

And,  when  every  blessing ’s  flown, 
Love  Thee — for  Thyself  alone. 

Anna  L^titia  Bakbauld. 


VENI,  CREATOR! 

Creator  Spirit,  by  whose  aid 

The  world’s  foundations  first  were  laid, 

Come,  visit  every  pious  mind ; 

Come,  pour  Thy  joys  on  human  kind ; 

From  sin  and  sorrow  set  us  free, 

And  make  Thy  temples  worthy  Thee  ! 

O source  of  uncreated  light, 

The  Father’s  promised  Paraclete ! 

Thrice  holy  fount,  thrice  holy  fire, 

Our  hearts  with  heavenly  love  inspire , 

Come,  and  Thy  sacred  unction  bring, 

To  sanctify  us  while  we  sing  ! 

Plenteous  of  grace,  descend  from  high, 

Rich  in  Thy  sevenfold  energy ! 

Thou  strength  of  His  almighty  hand 
Whose  power  does  heaven  and  earth  com- 
mand ! 

Proceeding  Spirit,  our  defence, 

Who  dost  the  gifts  of  tongues  dispense, 

And  crown’st  Thy  gifts  with  eloquence ! 

Refine  and  purge  our  earthly  parts  ; 

But  0,  inflame  and  fire  our  hearts ! 

Our  frailties  help,  our  vice  control — 

Submit  the  senses  to  the  soul ; 

And  when  rebellious  they  are  grown, 

Then  lay  Thy  hand,  and  hold  them  down. 

Chase  from  our  minds  the  infernal  foe, 

And  peace,  the  fruit  of  love,  bestow ; 

And,  lest  our  feet  should  step  astray, 

Protect  and  guide  us  in  the  way. 

Make  us  eternal  truths  receive, 

And  practise  all  that  we  believe ; 

Give  us  Thyself,  that  we  may  see 
The  Father,  and  the  Son,  by  Thee. 


772 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Immortal  honor,  endless  fame, 

Attend  the  Almighty  Father’s  name! 

The  Saviour  Son  he  glorified, 

Who  for  lost  man’s  redemption  died ! 

And  equal  adoration  he, 

Eternal  Paraclete,  to  Thee ! 

St.  Ambeose.  (Latin.) 
Paraphrase  of  John  Deyden. 


HYMN  OF  PRAISE. 

Lo ! God  is  here ! let  us  adore, 

And  own  how  dreadful  is  this  place ; 

Let  all  within  us  feel  His  power, 

And  silent  how  before  His  face ! 

Who  know  His  power,  His  grace  who  prove, 

Serve  Him  with  awe,  with  reverence  love. 

Lo ! God  is  here ! Him  day  and  night 
Th’  united  choirs  of  angels  sing ; 

To  Him,  enthroned  above  all  height, 
Heaven’s  host  their  noblest  praises  bring ; 

Disdain  not,  Lord,  our  meaner  song, 

Who  praise  Thee  with  a stammering  tongue. 

Gladly  the  toils  of  earth  we  leave, 

Wealth,  pleasure,  fame,  for  Thee  alone; 

To  Thee  our  will,  soul,  flesh,  we  give — 

O take ! O seal  them  for  Thine  own ! 

Thou  art  the  God,  Thou  art  the  Lord — 

Be  Thou  by  all  Thy  works  adored ! 

Being  of  beings ! may  our  praise 
Thy  courts  with  grateful  fragrance  fill ; 

Still  may  we  stand  before  Thy  face, 

Still  hear  and  do  Thy  sovereign  will ; 

To  thee  may  all  our  thoughts  arise — 

Ceaseless,  accepted  sacrifice. 

In  Thee  we  move ; all  things  of  Thee 
Are  full,  Thou  source  and  life  of  all ; 

Thou  vast  unfathomable  sea ! 

(Fall  prostrate,  lost  in  wonder  fall, 

Ye  sons  of  men ! For  God  is  man !) 

All  may  we  lose,  so  Thee  we  gain ! 


As  flowers  their  opening  leaves  display, 
And  glad  drink  in  the  solar  fire, 

So  may  we  catch  Thy  every  ray, 

So  may  Thy  influence  us  inspire — 

Thou  beam  of  the  eternal  beam ! 

Thou  purging  fire,  Thou  quickening  flame ! 

Gebhaed  Teesteegen.  (German.) 
Translation  of  John  Wesley. 


THE  LORD  THE  GOOD  SHEPHERD. 

The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,  nor  want  shall  I 
know; 

I feed  in  green  pastures,  safe-folded  I rest ; 

He  leadeth  my  soul  where  the  still  waters 
flow, 

Restores  me  when  wandering,  redeems 
when  oppressed. 

Through  the  valley  and  shadow  of  death 
though  I stray, 

Since  Thou  art  my  guardian  no  evil  I fear; 

Thy  rod  shall  defend  me,  Thy  staff  be  my 
stay; 

No  harm  can  befall  with  my  Comforter 
near. 

In  the  midst  of  affliction  my  table  is  spread ; 

With  blessings  unmeasured  my  cup  run- 
neth o’er ; 

With  perfume  and  oil  Thou  anointest  my 
head; 

0!  what  shall  I ask  of  Thy  Providence 
more? 

Let  goodness  and  mercy,  my  bountiful  God ! 

Still  follow  my  steps  till  I meet  Thee  above : 

I seek,  by  the  path  which  my  forefathers  trod 

Through  the  land  of  their  sojourn,  Thy 
kingdom  of  love. 

James  Montgomeey. 


SONNET. 

The  prayers  I make  will  then  be  sweet  in- 
deed, 

If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I pray ; 

My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 

That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed. 


THE  POET’S  HYMN  FOR  HIMSELF. 


Of  good  and  pious  works  Thou  art  the  seed, 
That  quickens  only  where  thou  say’st  it  may. 
Unless  Thou  show  to  us  Thine  own  true  way, 
No  man  can  find  it ; Father ! thou  must  lead. 
Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into 
my  mind 

By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred 
That  in  Thy  holy  footsteps  I may  tread ; 

The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind, 
That  I may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  Thee, 
And  sound  Thy  praises  everlastingly. 

Michael  Angelo.  (Italian.) 
Translation  of  Samuel  Words  worth. 


PRAISE. 

Come,  0 come ! with  sacred  lays 
Let  us  sound  the  Almighty’s  praise ! 
Hither  bring,  in  true  consent, 

Heart,  and  voice,  and  instrument. 

Let  the  orpharion  sweet 
With  the  harp  and  viol  meet ; 

Let  your  voices  tune  the  lute ; 

Let  not  tongue  nor  string  be  mute ; 
Nor  a creature  dumb  be  found 
That  hath  either  voice  or  sound ! 

Let  such  things  as  do  not  live, 

In  still  music  praises  give ! 

Lowly  pipe,  ye  worms  that  creep 
On  the  earth,  or  in  the  deep ; 

Loud  aloft  your  voices  strain, 

Beasts,  and  monsters  of  the  main ; 
Birds,  your  warbling  treble  sing ; 
Clouds,  your  peals  of  thunder  ring ; 
Sun  and  moon,  exalted  higher, 

And  you,  stars,  augment  the  choir ! 

Come,  ye  sons  of  human  race, 

In  this  chorus  take  your  place ! 

And  amid  this  mortal  throng 
Be  you  masters  of  the  song. 

Angels  and  celestial  powers, 

Be  the  noblest  tenor  yours ! 

Let,  in  praise  of  God,  the  sound 
Run  a never-ending  round, 

That  our  holy  hymn  may  be 
Everlasting  as  is  He. 


m 

From  the  earth’s  vast  hollow  womb 
Music’s  deepest  bass  shall  come ; 

Sea  and  floods,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  the  counter-tenor  roar ; 

To  this  concert,  when  we  sing, 

Whistling  winds,  your  descant  bring, 
Which  may  bear  the  sound  above 
Where  the  orb  of  fire  doth  move, 

And  so  climb  from  sphere  to  sphere, 
Till  our  song  the  Almighty  hear  ! 

So  shall  He,  from  heaven’s  high  tower, 
On  the  earth  His  blessings  shower ; 

All  this  huge  wide  orb  we  see 
Shall  one  choir,  one  temple  be ; 

There  our  voices  we  will  rear, 

Till  we  fill  it  every  where, 

And  enforce  the  fiends,  that  dwell 
In  the  air,  to  sink  to  hell. 

Then,  O come ! with  sacred  lays 
Let  us  sound  the  Almighty’s  praise. 

George  Wither. 


THE  POET’S  HYMN  FOR  HIMSELF. 

Gkeat  Almighty,  King  of  heaven, 

And  one  God  in  persons  three — ■ 

Honor,  praise,  and  thanks  be  given 
Now  and  evermore  to  Thee, 

Who  hast  more  for  Thine  prepared 
Than  by  words  can  be  declared ! 

By  Thy  mercies  I was  taken 
From  the  pits  of  miry  clay, 

Wherein,  wretched  and  forsaken, 

Helpless,  hopeless  too,  I lay ; 

And  those  comforts  Thou  didst  give  me 
Whereof  no  man  can  deprive  me. 

By  Thy  grace  the  passions,  troubles, 

And  what  most  my  heart  oppressed. 

Have  appeared  as  airy  bubbles, 

Dreams,  or  sufferings  but  in  jest ; 

And  with  profit  that  hath  ended 
Which  my  foes  for  harm  intended. 

Those  afflictions  and  those  terrors, 

Which  did  plagues  at  first  appear, 

Did  but  show  me  what  mine  errors 
And  mine  imperfections  were ; 


774 


POEMS  OF  KELIGION. 


But  they  wretched  could  not  make  me, 
Nor  from  Thy  affection  shake  me. 

Therefore  as  Thy  blessed  Psalmist, 

When  his  warfares  had  an  end, 

And  his  days  were  at  the  calmest, 

Psalms  and  hymns  of  praises  penned — 

So  my  rest,  by  Thee  enjoyed, 

To  Thy  praise  I have  employed. 

Lord ! accept  my  poor  endeavor, 

And  assist  Thy  servant  so, 

In  well  doing  to  persever, 

That  more  perfect  I may  grow — 

Every  day  more  prudent,  meeker, 

And  of  Thee  a faithful  seeker. 

Let  no  passed  sin  or  folly, 

Nor  a future  fault  in  me, 

Make  unfruitful  or  unholy 
What  I offer  now  to  Thee; 

But  with  favor  and  compassion 
Cure  and  cover  each  transgression. 

And  with  Israel’s  royal  singer 
Teach  me  so  faith’s  hymns  to  sing — 

So  Thy  ten-stringed  law  to  finger, 

And  such  music  thence  to  bring — 

That  by  grace  I may  aspire 
To  Thy  blessed  angel  choir ! 

George  Wither. 


PSALM  XIII. 

i. 

Lord,  how  long,  how  long  wilt  Thou 
Quite  forget,  and  quite  neglect  me  ? 

How  long,  with  a frowning  brow, 

Wilt  Thou  from  Thy  sight  reject  me  ? 

ii. 

How  long  shall  I seek  a way 
Forth  this  maze  of  thoughts  perplexed, 
Where  my  grieved  mind,  night  and  day, 
Is  with  thinking  tired  and  vexed  ? 

How  long  shall  my  scornful  foe, 

On  my  fall  his  greatness  placing, 

Build  upon  my  overthrow, 

And  be  graced  by  my  disgracing  ? 


in. 

Hear,  0 Lord  and  God,  my  cries ! 

Mark  my  foes’  unjust  abusing ; 

And  illuminate  mine  eyes, 

Heavenly  beams  in  them  infusing — 

Lest  my  woes,  too  great  to  bear, 

And  too  infinite  to  number, 

Bock  me  soon,  ’twixt  hope  and  fear, 

Into  death’s  eternal  slumber — 

IV. 

Lest  my  foes  their  boasting  make : 

Spite  of  right,  on  him  we  trample ; 

And  a pride  in  mischief  take, 

Hastened  by  my  sad  example. 

v. 

As  for  me,  I ’ll  ride  secure 
At  Thy  mercy’s  sacred  anchor ; 

And,  undaunted,  will  endure 
Fiercest  storms  of  wrong  and  rancour. 

VI. 

These  black  clouds  will  overblow — 
Sunshine  shall  have  his  returning ; 

And  my  grief-dulled  heart,  I know, 

Into  mirth  shall  change  his  mourning. 
Therefore  I ’ll  rejoice,  and  sing 
Hymns  to  God,  in  sacred  measure, 

Who  to  happy  pass  will  bring 
My  just  hopes,  at  His  good  pleasure. 

Francis  Davison. 


PSALM  XVIII. 

PART  FIRST. 

God,  my  strength  and  fortitude,  of  force  1 
must  love  Thee ! 

Thou  art  my  castle  and  defence  in  my  neces- 
sity— 

My  God,  my  rock  in  whom  I trust,  the  ma- 
ker of  my  wealth, 

My  refuge,  buckler,  and  my  shield,  the  horn 
of  all  my  health. 

When  I sing  laud  unto  the  Lord  most  worthy 
to  be  served, 

Then  from  my  foes  I am  right  sure  that  I 
shall  be  preserved. 


PSALM  XX. 


115 


The  pangs  of  death  did  compass  me,  and 
bound  me  every  where ; 

The  flowing  waves  of  wickedness  did  put  me 
in  great  fear. 

The  sly  and  subtle  snares  of  hell  were  round 
about  me  set ; 

And  for  my  death  there  was  prepared  a deadly 
trapping  net. 

I,  thus  beset  with  pain  and  grief,  did  pray  to 
God  for  grace ; 

And  He  forthwith  did  hear  my  plaint  out  of 
His  holy  place. 

Such  is  His  power  that  in  His  wrath  He  made 
the  earth  to  quake — 

Yea,  the  foundation  of  the  mount  of  Basan 
for  to  shake. 

And  from  His  nostrils  came  a smoke,  when 
kindled  was  His  ire ; 

And  from  His  mouth  came  kindled  coals  of 
hot  consuming  fire. 

The  Lord  descended  from  above,  and  bowed 
the  heavens  high ; 

And  underneath  His  feet  He  cast  the  darkness 
of  the  sky. 

On  cherubs  and  on  cherubims  full  royally  He 
rode; 

And  on  the  wings  of  all  the  winds  came  fly- 
ing all  abroad. 

Thomas  Steenhold. 


PSALM  XIX. 

The  heavens  declare  Thy  glory,  Lord ! 

In  every  star  Thy  wisdom  shines ; 

But  when  our  eyes  behold  Thy  word, 

We  read  Thy  name  in  fairer  lines. 

The  rolling  sun,  the  changing  light, 

And  nights  and  days  Thy  power  confess ; 
But  the  blest  volume  Thou  hast  writ 
Reveals  Thy  justice  and  Thy  grace. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  convey  Thy  praise 
Round  the  whole  earth,  and  never  stand ; 
So,  when  Thy  truth  begun  its  race 
It  touched  and  glanced  on  every  land. 


Nor  shall  Thy  spreading  gospel  rest 

Till  through  the  world  Thy  truth  has  run ; 
Till  Christ  has  all  the  nations  blest 
That  see  the  light  or  feel  the  sun. 

Great  Sun  of  Righteousness,  arise ! 

Bless  the  dark  world  with  heavenly  light ! 
Thy  gospel  makes  the  simple  wise — 

Thy  laws  are  pure,  Thy  judgments  right. 

Thy  noblest  wonders  here  we  view, 

In  souls  renewed,  and  sins  forgiven ; 

Lord,  cleanse  my  sins,  my  soul  renew, 

And  make  Thy  word  my  guide  to  heaven ! 

Isaac  Watts. 


PSALM  XX. 

Some  put  their  trust  in  chariots, 

And  horses  some  rely  on ; 

But  God  alone 
Our  help  we  own — 

God  is  the  strength  of  Sion. 

His  name  we  will  remember 
In  every  sore  temptation, 

And  feel  its  powers ; 

For  Christ  is  ours, 

With  all  His  great  salvation. 

We  are  His  ransomed  people, 

And  He  that  bought  will  have  us  • 
Secure  from  harm, 

While  Jesu’s  arm 
Is  still  stretched  out  to  save  us. 

He,  out  of  all  our  troubles, 

Shall  mightily  deliver, 

And  then  receive 
Us  up  to  live 

And  reign  with  Him  for  ever. 

Chables  Wesley. 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


116 


PSALM  XXIII. 

i. 

God,  who  the  universe  doth  hold 
In  His  fold, 

Is  my  shepherd,  kind  and  heedful— 

Is  my  shepherd,  and  doth  keep 
Me,  His  sheep, 

Still  supplied  with  all  things  needful, 

n. 

He  feeds  me  in  His  fields,  which  been 
Fresh  and  green, 

Mottled  with  Spring’s  flowery  painting — 

Thro’  which  creep,  with  murmuring  crooks, 
Crystal  brooks, 

To  refresh  my  spirit’s  fainting. 

ra. 

When  my  soul  from  heaven’s  way 
Went  astray, 

With  earth’s  vanities  seduced, 

For  His  name’s  sake,  kindly,  He 
Wandering  me 

To  His  holy  fold  reduced — 

IV. 

Yea,  though  I stray  through  death’s  vale, 
Where  his  pale 

Shades  did  on  each  side  enfold  me, 

Dreadless,  having  Thee  for  guide, 

Should  I bide ; 

For  Thy  rod  and  staff  uphold  me. 
v. 

Thou  my  board  with  messes  large 
Dost  surcharge ; 

My  bowls  full  of  wine  Thou  pourest ; 

And  before  mine  enemies’ 

Envious  eyes 

Balm  upon  my  head  Thou  showerest. 

VI. 

Neither  dures  Thy  bounteous  grace 
For  a space ; 

But  it  knows  nor  bound  nor  measure : 

So  my  days,  to  my  life’s  end, 

I shall  spend 

In  Thy  courts  with  heavenly  pleasure. 

Francis  Davison. 


psalm  xxm. 

Lo,  my  Shepherd’s  hand  divine ! 

Want  shall  never  more  be  mine. 

In  a pasture  fair  and  large 
He  shall  feed  His  happy  charge, 

And  my  couch  with  tenderest  care 
’Midst  the  springing  grass  prepare. 

When  I faint  with  Summer’s  heat, 
He  shall  lead  my  weary  feet 
To  the  streams  that,  still  and  slow, 
Through  the  verdant  meadows  flow. 

He  my  soul  anew  shall  frame ; 

And,  His  mercy  to  proclaim, 

When  through  devious  paths  I stray, 
Teach  my  steps  the  better  way. 

Though  the  dreary  vale  I tread 
By  the  shades  of  death  o’erspread ; 
There  I walk  from  terror  free, 

While  my  every  wish  I see 
By  Thy  rod  and  staff  supplied — 

This  my  guard,  and  that  my  guide. 

While  my  foes  are  gazing  on, 

Thou  Thy  favoring  care  hast  shown ; 
Thou  my  plenteous  board  hast  spread ; 
Thou  with  oil  refreshed  my  head ; 
Filled  by  Thee,  my  cup  o’erflows ; 

For  Thy  love  no  limit  knows. 

Constant,  to  my  latest  end, 

This  my  footsteps  shall  attend, 

And  shall  bid  Thy  hallowed  dome 
Yield  me  an  eternal  home. 

James  Herrick. 


PSALM  XXX. 

i. 

Lobd,  to  Thee,  while  I am  living, 

Will  I sing  hymns  of  thanksgiving ; 

For  Thou  hast  drawn  me  from  a gulf  of  woes, 
So  that  my  foes 
Do  not  deride  me. 

ii. 

When  Thine  aid,  Lord,  I implored, 

Then  by  Thee  was  I restored ; 

My  mournful  heart  with  joy  Thou  straight 
didst  fill, 


PSALM  XLYI. 


So  that  none  ill 
Doth  now  betide  me. 

in 

My  soul,  grievously  distressed, 

And  with  death  well-nigh  oppressed, 
From  death’s  devouring  jaws,  Lord,  Thou 
didst  save, 

And  from  the  grave 
My  soul  deliver. 

IV. 

O,  all  ye  that  e’er  had  savor 

Of  God’s  everlasting  favor, 

Come ! come  and  help  me  grateful  praises  sing 
To  the  world’s  King, 

And  my  life’s  giver. 

v. 

For  His  anger  never  lasteth, 

And  His  favor  never  wasteth. 

Though  sadness  be  thy  guest  in  sullen  night, 
The  cheerful  light 
Will  cheerful  make  thee. 

vi. 

Lulled  asleep  with  charming  pleasures, 

And  base,  earthly,  fading  treasures, 

Best,  peaceful  soul,  said  I,  in  happy  state — 
Ho  storms  of  fate 
Shall  ever  shake  thee  ! 

VII. 

For  Jehovah’s  grace  unbounded 

Hath  my  greatness  surely  founded ; 

And  hath  my  state  as  strongly  fortified, 

On  every  side, 

As  rocky  mountains. 

vm. 

But  away  His  face  God  turned — 

I was  troubled  then,  and  mourned ; 

Then  thus  I poured  forth  prayers  and  doleful 
cries, 

With  weeping  eyes, 

Like  watery  fountains : 

IX. 

In  my  blood  there  is  no  profit ; 

If  I die,  what  good  comes  of  it  ? 


Ill 

Shall  rotten  bones  or  senseless  dust  express 
Tby  thankfulness, 

And  works  of  wonder  ? 

x. 

O then  hear  me,  prayers  forthpouring, 
Drowned  in  tears,  from  moist  eyes  show- 
ering ; 

Have  mercy,  Lord,  on  me ; my  burden  ease, 
If  Thee  it  please, 

Which  I groan  under! 

XI. 

Thus  prayed  I,  and  God,  soon  after, 
Changed  my  mourning  into  laughter ; 

Mine  ashy  sackcloth,  mark  of  mine  annoy, 

To  robes  of  joy 
Eftsoons  He  turned. 

XII. 

Therefore,  harp  and  voice,  cease  never, 
But  sing  sacred  lays  for  ever 

To  great  Jehovah,  mounted  on  the  skies, 
Who  dried  mine  eyes 
When  as  I mourned. 

Fbancis  Davison. 


PSALM  XLYI. 

God  is  the  refuge  of  His  saints, 

When  storms  of  sharp  distress  invade ; 
Ere  we  can  offer  our  complaints, 

Behold  Him  present  with  His  aid. 

Let  mountains  from  their  seats  be  hurled 
Down  to  the  deep,  and  buried  there — 
Convulsions  shake  the  solid  world ; 

Our  faith  shall  never  yield  to  fear. 

Loud  may  the  troubled  ocean  roar ; 

In  sacred  peace  our  souls  abide, 

While  every  nation,  every  shore, 
Trembles  and  dreads  the  swelling  tide. 

There  is  a stream  whose  gentle  flow 
Supplies  the  city  of  our  God — 

Life,  love,  and  joy' still  gliding  through, 
And  watering  our  divine  abode ; 


118 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


That  sacred  stream  Thine  holy  word, 

That  all  our  raging  fear  controls ; 

Sweet  peace  Thy  promises  afford, 

And  give  new  strength  to  fainting  souls. 

Sion  enjoys  her  Monarch’s  love, 

Secure  against  a threat’ning  hour ; 

Nor  can  her  firm  foundations  move, 

Built  on  His  truth,  and  armed  with  power. 

Isaac  Watts. 


PSALM  LXY. 

SECOND  PAET. 

’T  is  by  Thy  strength  the  mountains  stand, 
God  of  eternal  power ! 

The  sea  grows  calm  at  Thy  command, 

And  tempests  cease  to  roar. 

Thy  morning  light  and  evening  shade 
Successive  comforts  bring ; 

Thy  plenteous  fruits  make  harvest  glad — 
Thy  flowers  adorn  the  Spring. 

Seasons  and  times,  and  moons  and  hours, 
Heaven,  earth,  and  air,  are  Thine ; 

"When  clouds  distil  in  fruitful  showers, 

The  author  is  divine. 

Those  wandering  cisterns  in  the  sky, 
Borne  by  the  winds  around, 

With  watery  treasures  well  supply 
The  furrows  of  the  ground. 

The  thirsty  ridges  drink  their  fill, 

And  ranks  of  corn  appear ; 

Thy  ways  abound  with  blessings  still — 
Thy  goodness  crowns  the  year. 

Isaac  Watts. 


PSALM  LXYI. 

Happy  sons  of  Israel, 

Who  in  pleasant  Canaan  dwell, 
Fill  the  air  with  shouts  of  joy — 
Shouts  redoubled  from  the  sky. 
Sing  the  great  Jehovah’s  praise, 
Trophies  to  His  glory  raise ; 


Say : How  wonderful  Thy  deeds ! 

Lord,  Thy  power  all  power  exceeds ! 
Conquest  on  Thy  sword  doth  sit — 
Trembling  foes  through  fear  submit. 

Let  the  many-peoplod  earth, 

All  of  high  and  humble  birth, 

Worship  our  Eternal  King — 

Hymns  unto  His  honor  sing. 

Come,  and  see  what  God  hath  wrought-- 
Terrible  to  human  thought ! 

He  the  billows  did  divide, 

Walled  with  waves  on  either  side, 

While  we  passed  safe  and  dry ; 

Then  our  souls  were  rapt  with  joy. 

Endless  His  dominion — 

All  beholding  from  His  throne. 

Let  not  those  who  hate  us  most, 

Let  not  the  rebellious,  boast. 

Bless  the  Lord ! His  praise  be  sung 
While  an  ear  can  hear  a tongue ! 

He  our  feet  established ; 

He  our  souls  redeems  from  death. 

Lord,  as  silver  purified, 

Thou  hast  with  affliction  tried; 

Thou  hast  driven  into  the  net, 

Burdens  on  our  shoulders  set. 

Trod  on  by  their  horses’  hooves — 

Theirs  whom  pity  never  moves — 

We  through  fire,  with  flames  embraced, 
We  through  raging  floods  have  passed ; 
Yet  by  Thy  conducting  hand 
Brought  into  a wealthy  land. 

I will  to  Thy  house  repair, 

Worship,  and  Thy  power  declare — 
Offerings  on  Thy  altar  lay, 

All  my  vows  devoutly  pay, 

Uttered  with  my  heart  and  tongue, 
When  oppressed  with  powerful  wrong. 
Fatlings  I will  sacrifice ; 

Incense  in  perfume  shall  rise — 

Bullocks,  shaggy  goats,  and  rams 
Offered  up  in  sacred  flames. 

You  who  great  Jehovah  fear, 

Come,  O come,  you  blest!  and  hear 
What  for  me  the  Lord  hath  wrought, 
Then  when  near  to  ruin  brought. 
Fervently  to  Him  I cried ; 

I His  goodness  magnified. 

If  I vices  should  affect, 

Would  not  He  my  prayers  reject? 


PSALM  C. 


779 


But  the  Lord  my  prayers  hath  heard 
Which  my  tongue  with  tears  preferred. 
Source  of  mercy,  he  Thou  blest, 

That  hast  granted  my  request ! 

Geobge  Sandys. 


PSALM  LXXII. 

FIRST  PART. 

Great  God,  whose  universal  sway 
The  known  and  unknown  worlds  obey, 
How  give  the  kingdom  Thy  Son — 
Extend  His  power,  exalt  His  throne ! 

Thy  sceptre  well  becomes  His  hands — 
All  heaven  submits  to  His  commands ; 

His  justice  shall  avenge  the  poor, 

And  pride  and  rage  prevail  no  more. 

With  power  He  vindicates  the  just, 

And  treads  the  oppressor  in  the  dust ; 

His  worship  and  His  fear  shall  last 
Till  hours  and  years,  and  time,  be  past. 

As  rain  on  meadows  newly  mown, 

So  shall  He  send  his  influence  down ; 

His  grace  on  fainting  souls  distils, 

Like  heavenly  dew  on  thirsty  hills. 

The  heathen  lands  that  lie  beneath 
The  shades  of  overspreading  death, 
Bevive  at  His  first  dawning  light, 

And  deserts  blossom  at  the  sight. 

The  saints  shall  flourish  in  His  days, 
Dressed  in  the  robes  of  joy  and  praise ; 
Peace,  like  a river,  from  His  throne, 

Shall  flow  to  nations  yet  unknown. 

Isaac  Watts. 


PSALM  XCII. 

Tnou  who  art  enthroned  above — 
Thou  by  whom  we  live  and  move ! 

O how  sweet,  how  excellent, 

Is ’t,  with  tongue  and  heart’s  consent, 
Thankful  hearts,  and  joyful  tongues, 
To  renown  Thy  name  in  songs — 


When  the  morning  paints  the  skies, 

When  the  sparkling  stars  arise, 

Thy  high  favors  to  rehearse, 

Thy  firm  faith  in  grateful  verse ! 

Take  the  lute  and  violin  ; 

Let  the  solemn  harp  begin — 

Instruments  strung  with  ten  strings — 
While  the  silver  cymbal  rings. 

From  Thy  works  my  joy  proceeds ; 

How  I triumph  in  Thy  deeds ! 

Who  Thy  wonders  can  express? 

All  Thy  thoughts  are  fathomless — 

Hid  from  men,  in  knowledge  blind — 

Hid  from  fools,  to  vice  inclined. 

Who  that  tyrant  sin  obey, 

Though  they  spring  like  flowers  in  May, 
Parched  with  heat,  and  nipped  with  frost. 
Soon  shall  fade,  for  ever  lost. 

Lord,  thou  art  most  great,  most  high — 
Such  from  all  eternity. 

Perish  shall  Thy  enemies — 

Eebels  that  against  Thee  rise. 

All  who  in  their  sins  delight 
Shall  be  scattered  by  Thy  might ; 

But  Thou  shalt  exalt  my  horn, 

Like  a youthful  unicorn ; 

Fresh  and  fragrant  odors  shed 
On  Thy  crowned  prophet’s  head. 

I shall  see  my  foe’s  defeat, 

Shortly  hear  of  their  retreat ; 

But  the  just,  like  palms,  shall  flourish 
Which  the  plains  of  Judah  nourish — 

Like  tall  cedars  mounted  on 
Cloud-ascending  Lebanon. 

Plants  set  in  Thy  court,  below 
Spread  their  roots,  and  upwards  grow ; 
Fruit  in  their  old  age  shall  bring — 

Ever  fat  and  flourishing. 

This  God’s  justice  celebrates — 

He,  my  Eock,  injustice  hates. 

Geoege  Sandys. 


PSALM  C. 

WiTn  one  consent  let  all  tho  earth 
To  God  their  cheerful  voices  raise — 
Glad  homage  pay  with  awful  mirth, 

And  sing  before  Him  songs  of  praise — 


780  POEMS  OF 

RELIGION. 

Convinced  that  He  is  God  alone, 

As  a watchman  waits  for  day, 

From  whom  both  we  and  all  proceed — 

And  looks  for  light,  and  looks  again, 

We  whom  He  chooses  for  His  own, 

When  the  night  grows  old  and  gray, 

The  flock  which  He  vouchsafes  to  feed. 

To  he  relieved  he  calls  amain : 
So  look,  so  wait, 

0 enter  then  His  temple  gate, 

So  long  mine  eyes, 

Thence  to  his  courts  devoutly  press ; 

To  see  my  Lord, 

And  still  your  grateful  hymns  repeat, 
And  still  His  name  with  praises  bless. 

My  Sun,  arise. 

Wait,  ye  saints,  wait  on  our  Lord — 

For  He ’s  the  Lord  supremely  good, 

For  from  His  tongue  sweet  mercy  flows. 

His  mercy  is  forever  sure ; 

Wait  on  His  cross,  wait  on  His  word — 

His  truth,  which  all  times  firmly  stood, 

Upon  that  tree  redemption  grows : 

To  endless  ages  shall  endure. 

He  will%*edeem 

Tate  and  Beady. 

PSALM  CXVII 

Feom  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 

His  Israel 

From  sin  and  wrath, 

From  death  and  hell. 

PniNEAS  Fletchbb. 

Let  the  Creator’s  praise  arise ; 

Let  the  Redeemer’s  name  be  sung 

HYMN",  FROM  PSALM  OXLVIII. 

Through  every  land,  by  every  tongue. 

Begin,  my  soul,  the  exalted  lay, 

Eternal  are  Thy  mercies,  Lord — 

Let  each  enraptured  thought  obey, 

Eternal  truth  attends  Thy  word; 

And  praise  the  Almighty  s name ; 

Thy  praise  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 
Till  suns  shall  rise  and  set  no  more. 

Lo ! heaven  and  earth,  and  seas  and  skies. 
In  one  melodious  concert  rise, 

Isaac  Watts. 

To  swell  the  inspiring  theme. 

* 

Ye  fields  of  light,  celestial  plains, 
Where  gay  transporting  beauty  reigns, 

PSALM  CXXX. 

Ye  scenes  divinely  fair ! 

Your  Maker’s  wondrous  power  proclaim— 

Feom  the  deeps  of  grief  and  fear 

Tell  how  He  formed  your  shining  frame, 

0 Lord ! to  Thee  my  soul  repairs ; 

From  Thy  Heaven  how  .down  Thine  ear — 

And  breathed  the  fluid  air. 

Let  Thy  mercy  meet  my  prayers : 
0 ! if  Thou  mark  ’st 

Ye  angels,  catch  the  thrilling  sound ! 

What ’s  done  amiss, 

While  all  the  adoring  thrones  around 

What  soul  so  pure 

His  boundless  mercy  sing : 

Can  see  Thy  bliss  ? 

Let  every  listening  saint  above 
Wake  all  the  tuneful  soul  of  love, 

But  with  Thee  sweet  mercy  stands, 
Sealing  pardons,  working  fear ; 

And  touch  the  sweetest  string. 

Wait,  my  soul,  wait  on  His  hands— 

Join,  ye  loud  spheres,  the  vocal  choir; 
Thou  dazzling  orb  of  liquid  fire, 

Wait,  mine  eye ; 0 ! wait,  mine  ear ! 

If  He  His  eye 

The  mighty  chorus  aid ; 

Or  tongue  affords, 

Soon  as  gray  evening  gilds  the  plain, 

Watch  all  His  looks, 

Thou,  moon,  protract  the  melting  strain, 

Catch  all  His  words ! 

And  praise  Him  in  the  shade. 

PSALM  C XL VIII. 


781 


Thou  heaven  of  heavens,  His  vast  abode, 
Ye  clouds,  proclaim  your  forming  God  ! 

Who  called  yon  worlds  from  night ; 

“Ye  shades,  dispel!  ” — the  Eternal  said, 
At  once  the  involving  darkness  fled, 

And  nature  sprung  to  light. 

Whate’er  a blooming  world  contains 
That  wings  the  air,  that  skims  the  plains, 
United  praise  bestow ; 

Ye  dragons,  sound  His  awful  name 
To  heaven  aloud ; and  roar  acclaim, 

Ye  swelling  deeps  below ! 

Let  every  element  rejoice ; 

Ye  thunders,  burst  with  awful  voice 
To  Him  who  bids  you  roll ; 

His  praise  in  softer  notes  declare, 

Each  whispering  breeze  of  yielding  air, 
And  breathe  it  to  the  soul ! 

To  Him,  ye  graceful  cedars,  bow ; 

Ye  towering  mountains,  bending  low, 
Your  great  Creator  own ! 

Tell,  when  affrighted  nature  shook, 

How  Sinai  kindled  at  His  look, 

And  trembled  at  His  frown. 

Ye  flocks  that  haunt  the  humble  vale, 

Ye  insects  fluttering  on  the  gale, 

In  mutual  concourse  rise ; 

Crop  the  gay  rose’s  vermeil  bloom, 

And  waft  its  spoils,  a sweet  perfume, 

In  incense  to  the  skies ! 

Wake,  all  ye  mounting  tribes,  and  sing — 
Ye  plumy  warblers  of  the  Spring, 
Harmonious  anthems  raise 
To  Him  who  shaped  your  finer  mould, 

Who  tipped  your  glittering  wings  with 
gold, 

And  tuned  your  voice  to  praise  ! 

Let  man — by  nobler  passions  swayed — 
The  feeling  heart,  the  judging  head, 

In  heavenly  praise  employ  ; 

Spread  His  tremendous  name  around, 

Till  heaven’s  broad  arch  rings  back  the 
sound, 

The  general  burst  of  joy. 


Ye,  whom  the  charms  of  grandeur  please, 
Nursed  on  the  downy  lap  of  ease, 

Fall  prostrate  at  His  throne ; 

Ye  princes,  rulers,  all,  adore — 

Praise  Him,  ye  kings,  who  make  your 
power 

An  image  of  His  own  ! 

Ye  fair,  by  nature  formed  to  move, 

O praise  the  Eternal  Source  of  love, 

With  youth’s  enlivening  fire ; 

Let  age  take  up  the  tuneful  lay, 

Sigh  His  blessed  name — then  soar  away, 
And  ask  an  angel’s  lyre ! 

John  Ogilvik 


PSALM  CXLVIII. 

You  who  dwell  above  the  skies, 

Free  from  human  miseries — 

You  whom  highest  heaven  embowers, 
Praise  the  Lord  with  all  your  powers ! 
Angels,  your  clear  voices  raise — 

Him  your  heavenly  armies  praise ; 

Sun  and  moon,  with  borrowed  light ; 

All  you  sparkling  eyes  of  night ; 

Waters  hanging  in  the  air ; 

Heaven  of  heavens — His  praise  declare, 
His  deserved  praise  record, 

His  who  made  you  by  His  word — 

Made  you  evermore  to  last, 

Set  you  bounds  not  to  be  passed ! 

Let  the  earth  His  praise  resound ; 
Monstrous  whales,  and  seas  profound ; 
Vapors,  lightnings,  hail,  and  snow; 
Storms  which,  when  He  bids  them,  blow ; 
Flowery  hills  and  mountains  high ; 

Cedars,  neighbors  to  the  sky ; 

Trees  that  fruit  in  season  yield ; 

All  the  cattle  of  the  field ; 

Savage  beasts,  all  creeping  things ; 

All  that  cut  the  air  with  wings ; 

You  who  awful  sceptres  sway, 

You  inured  to  obey — 

Princes,  judges  of  the  earth, 

All  of  high  and  humble  birth ; 

Youths  and  virgins  flourishing 
In  the  beauty  of  your  spring ; 

You  who  bow  with  age’s  weight, 

You  who  were  but  born  of  late ; 


782 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Praise  His  name  with  one  consent. 

O,  how  great ! how  excellent ! 

Than  the  earth  profonnder  far, 

Higher  than  the  highest  star, 

He  will  ns  to  honor  raise ; 

You,  His  saints,  resound  His  praise — 
You  who  are  of  Jacob’s  race, 

And  united  to  his  grace ! 

GEOBGE  S ANDYS, 


AN  ODE. 

How  are  Thy  servants  blest,  0 Lord ! 
How  sure  is  their  defence ! 

Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms,  and  lands  remote, 
Supported  by  Tby  care, 

Through  burning  climes  I passed  unhurt, 
And  breathed  in  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweetened  every  toil, 

Made  every  region  please ; 

The  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warmed 
And  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 

Think,  O my  soul,  devoutly  think, 

How  with  affrighted  eyes 

Thou  saw’st  the  wide-extended  deep 
In  all  its  horrors  rise ! 

Confusion  dwelt  in  every  face, 

And  fear  in  every  heart, 

When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  in  gulfs, 
O’ercame  the  pilot’s  art. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  0 Lord, 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free ; 

While  in  the  confidence  of  prayer 
My  soul  took  hold  on  Thee. 

For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung, 
High  on  the  broken  wave ; 

I knew  Thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear, 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  wind  retired, 
Obedient  to  Thy  will ; 

The  sea,  that  roared  at  Thy  command, 

At  Thy  command  was  still. 


In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  deaths, 
Thy  goodness  I ’ll  adore — 

And  praise  Thee  for  Thy  mercies  past, 
And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  Thou  preserv’st  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be ; 

And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 
Shall  join  my  soul  to  Thee. 

Joseph  Addkoh. 


THE  CREATOR  AND  CREATURES. 


Still  restless  nature  dies  and  grows — 

From  change  to  change  the  creatures  run ; 
Thy  being  no  succession  knows, 

And  all  Thy  vast  designs  are  one. 

A glance  of  Thine  runs  through  the  globes, 
Rules  the  bright  world,  and  moves  their 
frame ; 

Broad  sheets  of  light  compose  Thy  robes ; 
Thy  guards  are  formed  of  living  flame. 

Thrones  and  dominions  round  Thee  fall, 

And  worship  in  submissive  forms  : 

Thy  presence  shakes  this  lower  hall, 

This  little  dwelling-place  of  worms. 


How  shall  affrighted  mortals  dare 
To  sing  Thy  glory  or  Thy  grace — 
Beneath  Thy  feet  we  lie  so  far, 

And  see  hut  shadows  of  Thy  face ! 


God  is  a name  my  soul  adores — 

The  Almighty  Three,  the  Eternal  One ! 
Nature  and  grace,  with  all  their  powers, 
Confess  the  infinite  Unknown. 

From  Thy  great  self  Thy  being  springs — 
Thou  art  Thy  own  original, 

Made  up  of  uncreated  things ; 

And  self-sufficience  bears  them  all. 

Thy  voice  produced  the  seas  and  spheres, 

Bid  the  waves  roar,  and  planets  shine  ; 

But  nothing  like  Thyself  appears, 

Through  all  these  spacious  works  of  Thine. 


LIGHT  SHINING  OUT  OF  DARKNESS. 


783 


Who  can  behold  the  blazing  light — 

Who  can  approach  consuming  flame  ? 
None  hut  Thy  wisdom  knows  Thy  might — 
None  but  Thy  word  can  speak  Thy  name. 

Isaac  Watts. 


A HYMN. 

When  all  thy  mercies,  O my  God, 

My  rising  soul  surveys, 

Transported  with  the  view,  I ’m  lost 
In  wonder,  love,  and  praise. 

O how  shall  words  with  equal  warmth 
The  gratitude  declare, 

That  glows  within  my  ravished  breast? — 
But  Thou  canst  read  it  there ! 

Thy  providence  my  life  sustained, 

And  all  my  wants  redrest, 

When  in  the  silent  womb  I lay, 

And  hung  upon  the  breast. 

To  all  my  weak  complaints  and  cries 
Thy  mercy  lent  an  ear, 

Ere  yet  my  feeble  thoughts  had  learnt 
To  form  themselves  in  prayer. 

Unnumbered  comforts  to  my  soul 
Thy  tender  care  bestowed, 

Before  my  infant  heart  conceived 

From  whence  those  comforts  flowed. 

Joseph  Addison. 


A SAFE  STRONGHOLD. 

A safe  stronghold  our  God  is  still, 
A trusty  shield  and  weapon ; 

He  ’ll  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 
That  hath  us  now  o’ertaken. 

The  ancient  prince  of  hell 
Hath  risen  with  purpose  fell ; 
Strong  mail  of  craft  and  power 
He  weareth  in  this  hour — 

On  earth  is  not  his  fellow. 


By  force  of  arms  we  nothing  can — 

F ull  soon  were  we  down-ridden ; 

But  for  us  fights  the  proper  man, 

Whom  God  himself  hath  bidden. 

Ask  ye,  Who  is  this  same  ? 

Christ  Jesus  is  His  name, 

The  Lord  Zebaoth’s  Son — 

He  and  no  other  one 

Shall  conquer  in  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  devils  o’er, 

And  watching  to  devour  us, 

We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore — 

Not  they  can  overpower  us. 

And  let  the  prince  of  ill 
Look  grim  as  e’er  he  will, 

He  harms  us  not  a whit ; 

For  why  ? His  doom  is  writ — 

A word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 

God’s  word,  for  all  their  craft  and  force, 
One  moment  will  not  linger ; 

But,  spite  of  hell,  shall  have  its  course-^- 
’T  is  written  by  His  finger. 

And  though  they  take  our  life, 

Goods,  honor,  children,  wife, 

Yet  is  their  profit  small ; 

These  things  shall  vanish  all — 

The  city  of  God  remaineth. 

Martin  Luther.  (German.) 
Translation  of  Thomas  Carlyle. 


LIGHT  SHINING  OUT  OF  DARKNESS. 

God  moves  in  a mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform ; 

He  plants  his  footsteps  in  the  sea, 

And  rides  upon  the  storm. 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 
Of  never-failing  skill, 

He  treasures  up  his  bright  designs, 

And  works  His  sovereign  will. 

Ye  fearful  saints,  fresh  courage  take ! 

The  clouds  ye  so  much  dread 
Are  big  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 
In  blessings  on  your  head. 


184: 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 
But  trust  Him  for  His  grace : 

Behind  a frowning  providence 
He  bides  a smiling  face. 

His  purposes  will  ripen  fast, 

Unfolding  every  hour ; 

The  bud  may  have  a bitter  taste, 

But  sweet  will  be  the  flower. 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 

And  scan  His  work  in  vain : 

God  is  His  own  interpreter, 

And  He  will  make  it  plain. 

"William  Cowpeb. 


SEARCH  AFTER  GOD. 

I sought  Thee  round  about,  0 Thou  my  God ! 
In  thine  abode. 

I said  unto  the  earth : “ Speak!  art  thou  He?  ” 
She  answered  me : 

“ I am  not.” — I enquired  of  creatures  all, 

In  general, 

Contained  therein — they  with  one  voice  pro- 
claim 

That  none  amongst  them  challenged  such  a 
name. 

I asked  the  seas  and  all  the  deeps  below, 

My  God  to  know ; 

I asked  the  reptiles,  and  whatever  is 
In  the  abyss — 

Even  from  the  shrimp  to  the  leviathan 
Enquiry  ran ; , * 

But  in  those  deserts  which  no  line  can  sound, 
The  God  I sought  for  was  not  to  be  found. 

I asked  the  air,  if  that  were  He ; but 
It  told  me  no. 

I from  the  towering  eagle  to  the  wren 
Demanded  then 

If  any  feathered  fowl  ’mongst  them  were 
such ; 

But  they  all,  much 

Offended  with  my  question,  in  full  choir 
Answered : “To  find  thy  God  thou  must  look 
higher.” 


I asked  the  heavens,  sun,  moon,  and  stars — 
but  they 

Said:  “We  obey 

The  God  thou  seekest.”  I asked,  what  eye 
or  ear 

Could  see  or  hear — 

What  in  the  world  I might  descry  or  know 
Above,  below ; 

— With  an  unanimous  voice,  all  these  things 
said: 

“We  are  not  God,  but  we  by  Him  were 
made.” 

I asked  the  world’s  great  universal  mass, 

If  that  God  was ; 

Which  with  a mighty  and  strong  voice  re- 
plied, 

As  stupefied : 

“ I am  not  He,  0 man ! for  know  that  I 
By  Him  on  high 

Was  fashioned  first  of  nothing ; thus  instated 

And  swayed  by  Him,  by  whom  I was  created.” 

I sought  the  court ; but  smooth-tongued  flat- 
tery there 

Deceived  each  ear ; 

In  the  thronged  city  there  was  selling,  buy- 
ing, 

Swearing  and  lying ; 

I’  the  country,  craft  in  simpleness  arrayed — 
And  then  I said : . 

“Vain  is  my  search,  although  my  pains  be 
great — 

Where  my  God  is  there  can  be  no  deceit.” 

A scrutiny  within  myself  I,  then, 

Even  thus,  began : 

“ 0 man,  what  art  thou  ? ” — What  more  could 
I say 

Than  dust  and  clay — 

Frail,  mortal,  fading,  a mere  puff,  a blast, 
That  cannot  last — 

Enthroned  to-day,  to-morrow  in  an  urn, 

Formed  from  that  earth  to  which  I must  re- 
turn? 

I asked  myself,  what  this  great  God  might 
be 

That  fashioned  me; 

I answered : The  all-potent,  solely  immense 
Surpassing  sense — 


ON  ANOTHER’S  SORROW.  785 

Unspeakable,  inscrutable,  eternal, 

What  peaceful  hours  I once  enjoyed — 

Lord  over  all ; 

How  sweet  their  memory  still ! 

The  only  terrible,  strong,  just,  and  true, 

But  they  have  left  an  aching  void 

Who  hath  no  end,  and  no  beginning  knew. 

The  world  can  never  fill. 

He  is  the  well  of  life,  for  He  doth  give 

Return,  0 holy  Dove,  return ! 

To  all  that  live 

Sweet  messenger  of  rest : 

Both  breath  and  being.  He  is  the  Creator 

I hate  the  sins  that  made  Thee  mourn, 

Both  of  the  water, 

And  drove  Thee  from  my  breast. 

Earth,  air,  and  fire.  Of  all  things  that  sub- 

sist 

The  dearest  idol  I have  known, 

He  hath  the  list — 

Whate’er  that  idol  be, 

Of  all  the  heavenly  host,  or  what  earth  claims, 

Help  me  to  tear  it  from  Thy  throne, 

He  keeps  the  scroll,  and  calls  them  by  their 

.And  worship  )i  ly  Thee. 

names. 

Wjiliam  Cowpek. 

And  now,  my  God,  by  Thine  illumining  grace, 
Thy  glorious  face 

(So  far  forth  as  it  may  discovered  be) 

ON  ANOTHER’S  SORROW. 

Methinks  I see ; 

And  though  invisible  and  infinite, 

Can  I see  another’s  woe, 

To  human  sight 

And  not  be  in  sorrow  too  ? 

Thou,  in  Thy  mercy,  justice,  truth,  appear- 

Can  I see  another’s  grief, 

est — 

And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

In  which  to  our  weak  sense  Thou  comest 
nearest. 

Can  I see  a falling  tear, 

And  not  feel  my  sorrow’s  share  ? 

0 make  us  apt  to  seek,  and  quick  to  find, 

Thou  God,  most  kind ! 

Can  a father  see  his  child 

Give  us  love,  hope,  and  faith  in  Thee  to  trust, 

Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled  ? 

Thou  God,  most  just! 

Remit  all  our  offences,  we  entreat — 

Can  a mother  sit  and  hear 

Most  Good,  most  Great ! 

An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear  ? 

Grant  that  our  willing,  though  unworthy 

No ! no ! never  can  it  be — 

quest 

Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

May,  through  Thy  grace,  admit  us  ’mongst 
the  blest. 

Thomas  Heywood. 

And  candle  who  smiles  on  all, 

Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small, 

WALKING  WITH  GOD. 

Hear  the  small  bird’s  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear, — 

0 ! foe  a closer  walk  with  God, 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest, 

A calm  and  heavenly  frame, 

Pouring  pity  in  their  breast  ? 

A light  to  shine  upon  the  road 

And  not  sit  the  cradle  near, 

That  leads  me  to  the  Lamb ! 

Weeping  tear  on  infant’s  tear  ? 

Where  is  the  blessedness  I knew 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 

When  first  I saw  the  Lord  ? 

Wiping  all  our  tears  away  ? 

Where  is  the  soul-refreshing  view 

0,  no ! never  can  it  be — 

Of  Jesus  and  His  word  ? 

Never,  never  can  it  be ! 

50 

786 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


I 


He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all ; 

He  becomes  an  infant  small, 

He  becomes  a man  of  woe, 

He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  nigh ; 

Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a tear, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 

O ! He  gives  to  us  His  joy, 

That  our  griefs  He  may  destroy. 

Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 

William  Blake. 


GOD  IS  LOVE. 

All  I feel,  and  hear,  and  see, 

God  of  love,  is  full  of  Thee. 

Eaeth,  with  her  ten  thousand  flowers ; 
Air,  with  all  its  beams  and  showers ; 
Ocean’s  infinite  expanse ; 

Heaven’s  resplendent  countenance — 
All  around,  and  all  above, 

Hath  this  record : God  is  love,  . 

Sounds  among  the  vales  and  hills, 

In  the  woods,  and  by  the  rills, 

Of  the  breeze,  and  of  the  bird, 

By  the  gentle  murmur  stirred — 

All  these  songs,  beneath,  above, 

Have  one  burden : God  is  love. 


HOW  GRACIOUS  AND  HOW  WISE.” 

How  gracious  and  how  wise 
Is  our  chastising  God ! 

And  O ! how  rich  the  blessings  are 
Which  blossom  from  His  rod ! 

He  lifts  it  up  on  high 
With  pity  in  His  heart, 

That  every  stroke  His  children  feel 
May  grace  and  peace  impart. 


All  the  hopes  and  fears  that  start 
From  the  fountain  of  the  heart ; 

All  the  quiet  bliss  that  lies, 

All  our  human  sympathies — 

These  are  voices  from  above, 

Sweetly  whispering : God  is  love. 

Anonymous. 


THE  RESIGNATION. 


Instructed  thus,  they  bow, 

And  own  His  sovereign  sway — 
They  turn  their  erring  footsteps  back 
To  .His  forsaken  way. 

His  covenant  love  they  seek, 

And  seek  the  happy  bands 
That  closer  still  engage  their  hearts 
To  honor  His  commands. 


0 God  ! whose  thunder  shakes  the  sky, 
Whose  eye  this  atom-globe  surveys, 
To  Thee,  my  only  rock,  I fly, — 

Thy  mercy  in  Thy  justice  praise. 

The  mystic  mazes  of  Thy  will, 

The  shadows  of  celestial  night, 

Are  past  the  power  of  human  skill ; 

But  what  the  Eternal  acts  is  right. 


Dear  Father,  we  consent 
To  discipline  divine ; 

And  bless  the  pains  that  make  our  souls 
Still  more  completely  Thine. 

Philip  Doddeidge. 


O teach  me,  in  the  trying  hour — 

When  anguish  swells  the  dewy  tear— 
To  still  my  sorrows,  own  Thy  power, 
Thy  goodness  love,  Thy  justice  fear. 

If  in  this  bosom  aught  but  Thee, 
Encroaching,  sought  a boundless  sway 
Omniscience  could  the  danger  see, 

And  Mercy  look  the  cause  away. 


CHORUS. 


787 


Then  why,  my  soul,  dost  thou  complain — | 
Why  drooping  seek  the  dark  recess  i 
Shake  off  the  melancholy  chain ; 

For  God  created  all  to  bless. 

But  ah ! my  breast  is  human  still ; 

The  rising  sigh,  the  falling  tear, 

My  languid  vitals’  feeble  rill, 

The  sickness  of  my  soul  declare. 

But  yet,  with  fortitude  resigned, 

I ’ll  thank  the  inflictor  of  the  blow — 
Forbid  the  sigh,  compose  my  mind, 

Nor  let  the  gush  of  misery  flow. 

The  gloomy  mantle  of  the  night, 

Which  on  my  sinking  spirit  steals, 

Will  vanish  at  the  morning  light, 

Which  God,  my  East,  my  Sun,  reveals. 

Thomas  Chatterton. 


CHORUS. 

King  of  kings ! and  Lord  of  lords ! 

Thus  we  move,  our  sad  steps  timing 
To  our  cymbals’  feeblest  chiming, 
Where  Thy  house  its  rest  accords. 
Chased  and  wounded  birds  are  we, 
Through  the  dark  air  fled  to  Thee — 

To  the  shadow  of  Thy  wings, 

Lord  of  lords ! and  King  of  kings ! 

Behold,  O Lord ! the  heathen  tread 
The  branches  of  Thy  fruitful  vine 
That  its  luxurious  tendrils  spread 
O’er  all  the  hills  of  Palestine. 

And  now  the  wild  boar  comes  to  waste 
Even  us — the  greenest  boughs  and  last, 
That,  drinking  of  Thy  choicest  dew, 

On  Zion’s  hill  in  beauty  grew. 

No ! by  the  marvels  of  Thine  hand, 
Thou  wilt  save  Thy  chosen  land ! 

By  all  Thine  ancient  mercies  shown, 

By  all  our  fathers’  foes  o’erthrown ; 

By  the  Egyptian’s  car-borne  host, 
Scattered  on  the  Red  Sea  coast — 

By  that  wide  and  bloodless  slaughter 
Underneath  the  drowning  water. 

Like  us,  in  utter  helplessness, 

In  their  last  and  worst  distress — 


On  the  sand  and  sea-weed  lying — 

Israel  poured  her  doleful  sighing ; 

While  before  the  deep  sea  flowed, 

And  behind  fierce  Egypt  rode — 

To  their  fathers’  God  they  prayed, 

To  the  Lord  of  hosts  for  aid. 

On  the  margin  of  the  flood 
With  lifted  rod  the  prophet  stood ; 

And  the  summoned  east  wind  blew, 

And  aside  it  sternly  threw 

The  gathered  waves  that  took  their  stand, 

Like  crystal  rocks,  on  either  hand, 

Or  walls  of  sea-green  marble  piled 
Round  some  irregular  city  wild. 

Then  the  light  of  morning  lay 
On  the  wonder-paved  way, 

Where  the  treasures  of  the  deep 
In  their  caves  of  coral  sleep. 

The  profound  abysses,  where 
Was  never  sound  from  upper  air, 

Rang  with  Israel’s  chanted  words : 

King  of  kings ! and  Lord  of  lords ! 

Then  with  bow  and  banner  glancing, 

On  exulting  Egypt  came ; 

With  her  chosen  horsemen  prancing, 

And  her  cars  on  wheels  of  flame, 

In  a rich  and  boastful  ring, 

All  around  her  furious  king. 

But  the  Lord  from  out  His  cloud, 

The  Lord  looked  down  upon  the  proud ; 
And  the  host  drave  heavily 
Down  the  deep  bosom  of  the  sea. 

With  a quick  and  sudden  swell 
Prone  the  liquid  ramparts  fell ; 

Over  horse,  and  over  car, 

Over  every  man  of  war, 

Over  Pharaoh’s  crown  of  gold, 

The  loud  thundering  billows  rolled. 

As  the  level  waters  spread, 

Down  they  sank — they  sank  like  lead — 
Down  sank  without  a cry  or  groan. 

And  the  morning  sun,  that  shone 
On  myriads  of  bright-armed  men, 

Its  meridian  radiance  then 

Cast  on  a wide  sea,  heaving,  as  of  yore, 

Against  a silent,  solitary  shore. 

Henry  Hart  Milman 


788 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


THE  UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 

DEO  OPT.  MAX. 

Fatheb  of  all ! in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored — 

By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage — 
Jebovab,  Jove,  or  Lord ! 

Thou  great  First  Cause,  least  understood, 
"Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this : that  Thou  art  good, 
And  that  myself  am  blind ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 

And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 

This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 
That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  Thy  free  bounty  gives 
Let  me  not  cast  away — 

For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives: 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth’s  contracted  span 
Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 

Or  think  Thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 
Presume  Thy  bolts  to  throw, 

And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 
On  each  I judge  Thy  foe. 

If  I am  right,  Thy  grace  impart 
Still  in  the  right  to  stay ; 

If  I am  wrong,  O teach  my  heart 
To  find  that  better  way. 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride 
Or  impious  discontent, 

At  aught  Thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  Thy  goodness  lent. 




Teach  me  to  feel  another’s  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I see — 

That  mercy  I to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I am,  not  wholly  so, 
Since  quickened  by  Thy  breath ; 

0 lead  me,  wheresoe’er  I go, 

Through  this  day’s  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot — 
All  else  beneath  the  sun 

Thou  know’st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 
And  let  Thy  will  be  done. 

To  Thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space, 
Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies — 

One  chorus  let  all  being  raise ! 

All  nature’s  incense  rise ! 

Alexander  Pope. 


DIVINE  EJACULATION. 

i. 

Gbeat  God ! whose  sceptre  rules  the  earth. 
Distil  Thy  fear  into  my  heart, 

That,  being  rapt  with  holy  mirth, 

I may  proclaim  how  good  Thou  art ; 

Open  my  lips,  that  I may  sing 
Full  praises  to  my  God,  my  King. 

n. 

Great  God ! Thy  garden  is  defaced, 

The  weeds  thrive  there,  Thy  flowers  decay ; 
0 call  to  mind  Thy  promise  past — 

Restore  Thou  them,  cut  these  away ; 

Till  then  let  not  the  weeds  have  power 
To  starve  or  stint  the  poorest  flower. 

hi. 

In  all  extremes,  Lord,  Thou  art  still 
The  mount  whereto  my  hopes  do  flee ; 

0 make  my  soul  detest  all  ill, 

Because  so  much  abhorred  by  Thee ; 

Lord,  let  Thy  gracious  trials  show 
That  I am  just — or  make  me  so. 


THOU,  GOD,  SEEST  ME. 


IV. 

Shall  mountain,  desert,  beast,  and  tree, 
Yield  to  that  heavenly  voice  of  Thine, 
And  shall  that  voice  not  startle  me, 

Nor  stir  this  stone,  this  heart  of  mine  ? 
No,  Lord,  till  Thou  new-bore  mine  ear, 
Thy  voice  is  lost,  I cannot  hear. 

v. 

Fountain  of  light  and  living  breath, 
Whose  mercies  never  fail  nor  fade, 

Fill  me  with  life  that  hath  no  death, 

Fill  me  with  light  that  hath  no  shade ; 
Appoint  the  remnant  of  my  days 
To  see  Thy  power  and  sing  Thy  praise. 

VI. 

Lord  God  of  gods ! before  whose  throne 
Stand  storms  and  fire,  O what  shall  we 
Return  to  heaven,  that  is  our  own, 

When  all  the  world  belongs  to  Thee  ? 

We  have  no  offerings  to  impart, 

But  praises,  and  a wounded  heart. 

VII. 

0 Thou  that  sitt’st  in  heaven  and  see’st 
My  deeds  without,  my  thoughts  within, 
Be  Thou  my  prince,  be  Thou  my  priest — 
Command  my  soul,  and  cure  my  sin ; 
How  bitter  my  afflictions  be 

1 care  not,  so  I rise  to  Thee. 

VIII. 


^785 


Great  God ! whose  kingdom  hath  no  end, 
Into  whose  secrets  none  can  dive, 

Whose  mercy  none  can  apprehend, 

Whose  justice  none  can  feel — and  live, 
What  my  dull  heart  cannot  aspire 
To  know,  Lord,  teach  me  to  admire. 

John  Quarles. 


“THOU,  GOD,  SEEST  ME.” 

0 God,  unseen  but  not  unknown, 

Thine  eye  is  ever  fixed  on  me ; 

1 dwell  beneath  Thy  secret  throne, 
Encompassed  by  Thy  Deity. 

Throughout  this  universe  of  space 
To  nothing  am  I long  allied, 

For  flight  of  time,  and  change  of  place, 

My  strongest,  dearest  bonds  divide. 

Parents  I had,  but  where  are  they  ? 

Friends  whom  I knew  I know  no  more  ; 

Companions,  once  that  cheered  my  way, 
Have  dropped  behind  or  gone  before. 

Now  I am  one  amidst  a crowd 
Of  life  and  action  hurrying  round ; 

Now  left  alone — for,  like  a cloud, 

They  came,  they  went,  and  are  not  found 

Even  from  myself  sometimes  I part — 
Unconscious  sleep  is  nightly  death — 

Yet  surely  by  my  couch  Thou  art, 

To  prompt  my  pulse,  inspire  my  breath. 


What  I possess,  or  what  I crave, 

Brings  no  content,  great  God,  to  me, 

If  what  I would,  or  what  I have, 

Be  not  possessed  and  blest  in  Thee : 

What  I enjoy,  0 make  it  mine, 

In  making  me — that  have  it — Thine. 

IX. 

When  winter  fortunes  cloud  the  brows 
Of  summer  friends — when  eyes  grow  strange— 
When  plighted  faith  forgets  its  vows, 

When  earth  and  all  things  in  it  change — 

0 Lord,  Thy  mercies  fail  me  never ; 

Where  once  Thou  lov’st,  Thou  lov’st  for  ever. 


Of  all  that  I have  done  and  said 
How  little  can  I now  recall ! 

Forgotten  things  to  me  are  dead ; 

With  Thee  they  live, — Thou  know’st  them 
all. 

Thou  hast  been  with  me  from  the  womb, 
Witness  to  every  conflict  here ; 

Nor  wilt  Thou  leave  me  at  the  tomb — 
Before  Thy  bar  I must  appear. 

The  moment  comes, — the  only  one 
Of  all  my  time  to  be  foretold ; 

Yet  when,  and  how,  and  where,  can  none 
Among  the  race  of  man  unfold  : — 


*790 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


The  moment  comes  when  strength  shall  fail, 
"When  — health,  and  hope,  and  courage 
flown — 

I must  go  down  into  the  vale 

And  shade  of  death  with  Thee  alone. 

Alone  with  Thee ! — in  that  dread  strife 
Uphold  me  through  mine  agony ; 

And  gently  be  this  dying  life 
Exchanged  for  immortality. 

Then,  when  the  unbodied  spirit  lands 
Where  flesh  and  blood  have  never  trod, 

And  in  the  unveiled  presence  stands, 

Of  Thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  God — 

Be  mine  eternal  portion  this — 

Since  Thou  wert  always  here  with  me : 

That  I may  view  Thy  face  in  bliss, 

And  be  for  evermore  with  Thee. 

James  Montgomery. 


DELIGHT  IN'  GOD  ONLY. 

1 love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the 
earth — 

She  is  my  Maker’s  creature,  therefore  good. 

She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth ; 

She  is  my  tender  nurse,  she  gives  me 
food: 

But  what’s  a creature,  Lord,  compared 
with  Thee  ? 

Or  what ’s  my  mother  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I love  the  air — her  dainty  sweets  refresh 

My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  in- 
vite me ; 

Her  shrill-mouthed  choir  sustain  me  with 
.their  flesh, 

And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight 
me : 

But  what ’s  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that 
she 

Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compared  to 
Thee? 


I love  the  sea — she  is  my  fellow-creature, 

My  careful  purveyor;  she  provides  me 
store ; 

She  walls  me  round ; she  makes  my  diet 
greater ; 

She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a foreign  shore : 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compared  with 
Thee, 

What  is  the  ocean  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven’s  high  city  I direct  my  journey, 
Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine 
eye — 

Mine  eye,  by  contemplation’s  great  attorney, 
Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the 
sky: 

But  what  is  heaven,  great  God,  compared 
to  Thee  ? 

Without  Thy  presence,  heaven ’s  no  heaven 
to  me. 

Without  Thy  presence,  earth  gives  no  reflec- 
tion ; 

Without  Thy  presence,  sea  affords  no  treas- 
ure ; 

Without  Thy  presence,  air ’s  a rank  infection ; 
Without  Thy  presence,  heaven ’s  itself  no 
pleasure : 

If  not  possessed,  if  not  enjoyed  in  Thee, 
What ’s  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heaven  tc 
me? 

The  highest  honors  that  the  world  can  boast 
Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire ; 

The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are,  at  most, 

But  dying  sparkles  of  Thy  living  fire  ; 

The  loudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle, 
be 

But  nightly  glow-worms  if  compared  to 
Thee. 

Without  Thy  presence,  wealth  is  bags  of 
cares ; 

Wisdom  but  folly;  joy,  disquiet,  sadness; 

Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares ; 
Pleasures  but  pain,  and  mirth  but  pleasing 
madness — 

Without  Thee,  Lord,  things  be  not  what 
they  be, 

Nor  have  their  being,  when  compared  with 
Thee. 


GOD’S  GREATNESS. 


791 


In  having  all  things,  and  not  Thee,  what 
have  I ? 

Not  having  Thee,  what  have  my  labors 
got? 

Let  me  enjoy  but  Thee,  what  further  crave  I ? 

And  having  Thee  alone,  what  have  I not  ? 

I wish  nor  sea,  nor  land,  nor  would  I be 

Possessed  of  heaven,  heaven  unpossessed 
of  Thee ! 

Francis  Quarles. 


TIME  PAST,  TIME  PASSING,  TIME  TO 
COME. 

Loed,  Thou  hast  been  Thy  people’s  rest, 
Through  all  their  generations — 

Their  refuge  when  by  troubles  pressed, 
Their  hope  in  tribulations : 

Thou,  ere  the  mountains  sprang  to  birth, 
Or  ever  Thou  hadst  formed  the  earth, 

Art  God  from  everlasting. 

Our  life  is  like  the  transient  breath, 

That  tells  a mournful  story — 

Early  or  late  stopped  short  by  death — 
And  where  is  all  our  glory  ? 

Our  days  are  threescore  years  and  ten, 

And  if  the  span  be  lengthened  then, 

Their  strength  is  toil  and  sorrow. 

Lo ! Thou  hast  set  before  Thine  eyes 
All  our  misdeeds  and  errors ; 

Our  secret  sins  from  darkness  rise 
At  Thine  awakening  terrors : 

Who  shall  abide  the  trying  hour  ? 

Who  knows  the  thunder  of  Thy  power  ? 
We  flee  unto  Thy  mercy. 

Lord,  teach  us  so  to  mark  our  days 
That  we  may  prize  them  duly ; 

So  guide  our  feet  in  Wisdom’s  ways 
That  we  may  love  Thee  truly  ; 

Return,  O Lord ! our  griefs  behold, 

And  with  Thy  goodness,  as  of  old, 

0 satisfy  us  early ! 

James  Montgomery. 


“THOU  GOD  UNSEARCHABLE.' 

Thou  God  unsearchable,  unknown, 

Who  still  conceal’st  Thyself  from  me, 
Hear  an  apostate  spirit  groan — 

Broke  off  and  banished  far  from  Thee 
But  conscious  of  my  fall  I mourn. 

And  fain  I would  to  Thee  return. 

Send  forth  one  ray  of  heavenly  light, 

Of  gospel  hope,  of  humble  fear, 

To  guide  me  through  the  gulf  of  night — 
My  poor  desponding  soul  to  cheer, 

Till  Thou  my  unbelief  remove, 

And  show  me  all  Thy  glorious  love. 

A hidden  God  indeed  Thou  art — 

Thy  absence  I this  moment  feel ; 

Yet  must  I own  it  from  my  heart — 
Concealed,  Thou  art  a Saviour  still ; 
And  though  Thy  face  I cannot  see, 

I know  Thine  eye  is  fixed  on  me. 

My  Saviour  Thou,  not  yet  revealed ; 

Yet  will  I Thee  my  Saviour  call, 

Adore  Thy  hand — from  sin  withheld — 
Thy  hand  shall  save  me  from  my  fall : 
Now  Lord,  throughout  my  darkness  shine. 
And  show  Thyself  for  ever  mine. 

Charles  Wesley. 


GOD’S  GREATNESS. 

0 god,  Thou  bottomless  abyss ! 

Thee  to  perfection  who  can  know  ? 

0 height  immense ! what  words  suffice 
Thy  countless  attributes  to  show  ? 
Unfathomable  depths  Thou  art ! 

O plunge  me  in  Thy  mercy’s  sea ! 

Void  of  true  wisdom  is  my  heart — 

With  love  embrace  and  cover  me ! 
While  Thee,  all  infinite,  I set 
By  faith  before  my  ravished  eye, 

My  weakness  bends  beneath  the  weiglit- 
O’erpowered,  I sink,  I faint,  I die  ! 

Eternity  Thy  fountain  was, 

Which,  like  Thee,  no  beginning  knew  : 
Thou  wast  ere  time  began  his  race, 

Ere  glowed  with  stars  th’  ethereal  blue. 


POEMS  OF  RELIGION. 


792 
I 

j Greatness  unspeakable  is  Thine — 

Greatness  whose  undirainished  ray, 

When  short-lived  worlds  are  lost,  shall 
shine, — 

When  earth  and  heaven  are  fled  away. 
Unchangeable,  all-perfect  Lord, 

Essential  life ’s  unbounded  sea ! 

What  lives  and  moves,  lives  by  Thy  word  ; 

It  lives,  and  moves,  and  is,  from  Thee. 

Thy  parent-hand,  Tby  forming  skill, 

Firm  fixed  this  universal  chain ; 

Else  empty,  barren  darkness  still 
Had  held  his  unmolested  reign. 

Whate’er  in  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 

Or  shuns  or  meets  the  wandering  thought, 

1 Escapes  or  strikes  the  searching  eye, 

By  Thee  was  to  perfection  brought ! 
i High  is  Thy  power  above  all  height ; 
j Whate’er  Thy  will  decrees  is  done  ; 

| Thy  wisdom,  equal  to  Thy  might, 

Only  to  Thee,  O God,  is  known ! 

j Heaven’s  glory  is  Thy  awful  throne, 

Yet  earth  partakes  Thy  gracious  sway; 

| Yain  man ! thy  wisdom  folly  own — 

Lost  is  thy  reason’s  feeble  ray. 
j What  our  dim  eye  could  never  see 
Is  plain  and  naked  to  Thy  sight ; 

I What  thickest  darkness  veils,  to  Thee 
Shines  clearly  as  the  morning  light. 

In  light  Thou  dwell’st,  light  that  no  shade, 
No  variation,  ever  knew  ; 

Heaven,  earth,  and  hell  stand  all  displayed, 
And  open  to  Thy  piercing  view. 

Thou,  true  and  only  God,  lead’st  forth 
Th’  immortal  armies  of  the  sky  ; 
thou  laugh’st  to  scorn  the  gods  of  earth  ; 

Thou  thunderest,  and  amazed  they  fly ! 
With  downcast  eye  th’  angelic  choir 
Appear  before  Thy  awful  face ; 

Trembling  they  strike  the  golden  lyre, 

And  through  heaven’s  vault  resound  Thy 
praise. 

In  earth,  in  heaven,  in  all  Thou  art ; 

The  conscious  creature  feels  Thy  nod, 
Whose  forming  hand  on  every  part 
Impressed  the  image  of  its  God. 


Thine,  Lord,  is  wisdom,  Thine  alone ! 

Justice  and  truth  before  Thee  stand ; 

Yet,  nearer  to  Thy  sacred  throne, 

Mercy  withholds  Thy  lifted  hand. 

Each  evening  shows  Thy  tender  love, 

Each  rising  morn  Thy  plenteous  grace ; 

Thy  wakened  wrath  doth  slowly  move, 

Thy  willing  mercy  flies  apace ! 

To  Thy  benign,  indulgent  care, 

Father,  this  light,  this  breath  we  owe  ; 

And  all  we  have,  and  all  we  are, 

From  Thee,  great  Source  of  Being,  flow. 

Parent  of  Good,  Thy  bounteous  hand 
Incessant  blessings  down  distils, 

And  all  in  air,  or  sea,  or  land, 

With  plenteous  food  and  gladness  fills. 

All  things  in  Thee  live,  move,  and  are — 

Thy  power  infused  doth  all  sustain ; 

Even  those  Thy  daily  favors  share 
Who  thankless  spurn  Thy  easy  reign. 

Thy  sun  Thou  bidd’st  his  genial  ray 
Alike  on  all  impartial  pour ; 

To  all,  who  hate  or  bless  Thy  sway, 

Thou  bidd’st  descend  the  fruitful  shower. 

Yet  while,  at  length,  who  scorned  Thy  might 
Shall  feel  Thee  a consuming  fire, 

How  sweet  the  joys,  the  crown  how  bright, 
Of  those  who  to  Thy  love  aspire  ! 

All  creatures  praise  th’  eternal  Name  ! 

Ye  hosts  that  to  His  court  belong — 

Cherubic  choirs,  seraphic  flames — 

Awake  the  everlasting  song  ! 

Thrice  holy ! Thine  the  kingdom  is — 

The  power  omnipotent  is  Thine  ; 

And  when  created  nature  dies, 

Thy  never-ceasing  glories  shine. 

Joachim  Justus  Beeithaupt.  (German.) 
Translation  of  John  Wesley. 


GOD. 

0 thou  eternal  One ! whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide — 
Unchanged  through  time’s  all-devastating 
flight ! 

Thou  only  God — there  is  no  God  beside ! 
Being  above  all  beings ! Mighty  One, 


GOD. 


79S 


Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  ex- 
plore ! 

Who  fill’st  existence  with  Thyself  alone — 
Embracing  all,  supporting,  ruling  o’er, — 

| Being  whom  we  call  God,  and  know  no 
more! 

In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 
May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep — may  count 
The  sands  or  the  sun’s  rays — but,  God ! for 
Thee 

There  is  no  weight  nor  measure ; none  can 
mount 

Up  to  Thy  mysteries ; Reason’s  brightest 
spark, 

Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would 
try 

To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark ; 
And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so 
high, 

Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
First  chaos,  then  existence — Lord ! in  Thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  ; all 
Sprung  forth  from  Thee — of  light,  joy,  har- 
mony, 

Sole  Origin — all  life,  all  beauty  Thine ; 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create ; 

Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine ; 
Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be ! Glorious ! 
Great ! 

Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate ! 

Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  sur- 
round— 

Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with 
breath ! 

Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death ! 

As  sparks  mount  upwards  from  the  fiery 
blaze, 

i So  suns  are  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from 
Thee; 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 
Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 
Of  heaven’s  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy 
praise. 

A million  torches  lighted  by  Thy  hand 
Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss — 


They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  com- 
mand, 

All  gay  with  life,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 
What  shall  we  call  them  ? Piles  of  crystal 
light — 

A glorious  company  of  golden  streams — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright — 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous 
beams  ? 

But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

Yes ! as  a drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 

All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost : — 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to 
Thee? 

And  what  am  I then  ? — Heaven’s  unnum- 
bered host, 

Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 

Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weighed 
Against  Thy  greatness — is  a cipher  brought 
Against  infinity ! What  am  I then?  Naught! 

Naught!  But  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  di- 
vine, 

Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom 
too ; 

Yes ! in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine 
As  shines  the  sun-beam  in  a drop  of  dew. 
Naught ! but  I live,  and  on  hope’s  pinions  fly 
Eager  towards  Thy  presence — for  in  Thee 
I live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell ; aspiring  high, 
Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 

I am,  0 God ! and  surely  Thou  must  be  ! 

Thou  art! — directing,  guiding  all — Thou  art! 
Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering 
heart ; 

Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 

Still  I am  something,  fashioned  by  Thy 
hand! 

I hold  a middle  rank  ’twixt  heaven  and 
earth — 

On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 

Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their 
birth, 

Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land ! 

The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me — 

In  me  is  matter’s  last  gradation  lost, 


*794  POEMS  OF 

— 

And  the  next  step  is  spirit — Deity] 

I can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 

A monarch  and  a slave — a worm,  a god ! 
j Whence  came  I here,  and  how?  so  marvel- 
lously 

| Constructed  and  conceived?  unknown!  this 
clod 

Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy ; 
j For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be ! 

| Creator,  yes ! Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
| Created  me ! Thou  source  of  life  and  good ! 
j Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord ! 
j Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 
j Filled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death ; and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 


RELIGION. 

Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source — to  Thee — its  Author 
there. 

O thoughts  ineffable ! O visions  blest ! 
Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 
And  waft  its  homage  to  Tbv  Deity. 

God!  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can 
soar, 

Thus  seek  Thy  presence — Being  wise  and 
good! 

Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore ; 
And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more 
The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 

Gabriel  Eomanowitch  Derzhavin.  (Russian.) 
Translation  of  John  Bowsing. 


APPENDIX 


STABAT  MATER. 

Stabat  mater  dolorosa, 

Juxta  crucem  lacrymosa, 

Qua  pendebat  filius ; 

Cujus  animam  gementem, 
Contristatam,  et  dolentem, 
Pertransivit  gladius. 

0 ! quam  tristis  et  afflicta, 
Fuit  ilia  benedicta 
Mater  Unigeniti. 

Quae  moerebat  et  dolebat, 

Et  tremebat,  cum  videbat 
Nati  poenas  inclyti ! 

Quis  est  homo,  qui  non  fleret 
Christi  matrem  si  videret, 

In  tanto  supplicio  ? 

Quis  posset  non  contristari, 
Piam  matrem  contemplari 
Dolentem  cum  filio  ? 

Pro  peccatis  suae  gentis, 
Videt  Jesum  in  tormentis, 

Et  flagellis  subditum ; 
Yidit  suum  dulcem  natum, 
Moriendo  desolatum, 

Dum  emisit  spiritum. 


Sancta  mater ! istud  agas, 
Crucifixi  fige  plagas 
Cordi  meo  valide ; 

Tui  nati  vulnerati, 

Tam  dignati  pro  me  pati, 
Poenas  mecum  divide. 

Fac  me  vere  tecum  flere, 
Crucifixo  condolere, 

Donee  ego  vixero  ; 

Juxta  crucem  tecum  stare, 

Te  libenter  sociare 
In  planctu  desidero. 

Virgo  virginum  praeclara ! 
Mihi  jam  non  sis  amara 
Fac  me  tecum  plangere ; 
Fac  ut  portem  Christi  mortem 
Passione  fac  consortem 
Et  poenam  recolere. 

Fac  me  plagis  vulnerari, 
Cruceque  me  fac  beari, 

Ob  amorem  filii ; 
Inflammatus  et  accensus, 

Per  te  pia,  sim  defensus 
In  die  judicii. 


Eia  mater,  fons  amoris ! 

Me  sentire  vim  doloris 
Fac,  ut  tecum  lugcam ; 
Fac  ut  ardeat  cor  meum 
In  amando  Christum  Deum 
Ut  sibi  complaceam. 


Christe,  cum  sit  hinc  transive, 

Da  per  matrem  me  venire 
Ad  palmam  victoria) ; 

Quando  corpus  morietur, 

Fac  ut  anima  donetur, 

Paradisi  gloria. 

Jacobus  de  Benedicts. 


796 


APPENDIX. 


ORATIO  DEYOTISSBIA  AD  TRES  PERSONAS 
SS.  TRINITATIS. 

AD  PATREM. 

Alpha  et  fl,  magne  Deus, 

Heli,  Heli,  Deus  meus, 

Cujus  virtus  totum  posse, 

Cujus  sensus  totum  nosse, 

Cujus  esse  summum  bonum, 

Cujus  opus  quidquid  bonum, 

Super  cuncta,  subter  cuncta, 

Extra  cuncta,  intra  cuncta ; 

Intra  cuncta,  nec  inclusus, 

Extra  cuncta,  nec  exclusus, 

Super  cuncta,  nec  elatus, 

Subter  cuncta,  nec  substratus ; 

Super  totus,  praesidendo, 

Subter  totus,  sustinendo, 

Extra  totus,  complectendo, 

Intra  totus  es,  implendo. 

Intra,  nusquam  coarctaris, 

Extra,  nusquam  dilataris, 

Subter,  nullo  fatigaris, 

Super,  nullo  sustentaris. 

Mundum  movens,  non  moreris, 

Locum  tenens,  non  teneris, 

Tempus  mutans,  non  mutaris, 

Yaga  firmans,  non  vagaris. 

Yis  externa,  vel  necesse 
Non  alternat  tuum  esse; 

Heri  nostrum,  eras,  et  pridem 
Semper  tibi  nunc  et  idem ; 

Tuum,  Deus,  hodiernum, 

Indivisum,  sempitemum  ; 

In  hoc  totum  praevidisti, 

Totum  simul  perfecisti, 

Ad  exemplar  summae  mentis 
Formam  praestans  elementis. 

ORATIO  AD  FILICM. 

Nati,  Patri  coaequalis, 

Patri  consubstantialis, 

Patris  splendor  et  figura, 

Factor  factus  creatura, 

Carnem  nostram  induisti, 

Causam  nostram  suscepisti : 

Sempitemus,  temporalis ; 

Moriturus,  immortalis ; 

Yerus  homo,  verus  Deus ; 

Impermixtus  Homo-Deus. 

Non  conversus  hie  in  carnem, 

Nec  minutus  propter  carnem ; 

Hie  assumptus  est  in  Deum, 

Nec  consumptus  propter  Deum  ; 

Patri  compar  Deitate, 

Minor  carnis  veritate : 

Deus  pater  tantum  Dei, 

Yirgo  mater,  sed  et  Dei. 


In  tarn  nova  ligatura 
Sic  utraque  stat  natura, 

Ut  conservet  quicquid  erat. 
Factus  quidem  quod  non  erat, 
Noster  iste  mediator, 

Iste  noster  legis,  dator, 
Circumcisus,  baptizatus, 
Crucifixus,  tumulatus, 
Obdormivit,  et  descendit, 
Resurrexit  et  ascendit : 

Sic  ad  coelos  elevatus 
Judicabit  judicatus. 

ORATIO  AD  SPIRITUM  SAXCTUM. 

Paraclitus  increatus, 

Neque  factus,  neque  natus, 
Patri  consors,  Genitoque, 

Sic  procedit  ab  utroque, 

Ne  sit  minor  paritate, 

Yel  discretus  qualitate. 

Quanti  illi,  tantus  iste, 

Quales  illi,  talis  iste, 

Ex  quo  illi,  ex  tunc  iste  ; 
Quantum  illi,  tantum  iste. 
Pater  alter,  sed  gignendo ; 
Natus  alter,  sed  nascendo  ; 
Flamen  ab  his  procedendo  ; 
Tres  sunt  unum  subsistendo. 
Quisque  trium  plenus  Deus, 
Non  tres  tamen  Di,  sed  Deus. 
In  hoc  Deo,  Deo  vero, 

Tres  et  unum  assevero, 

Dans  usiae  unitatem, 

Et  person  is  Trinitatem. 

In  personis  nulla  prior, 

Nulla  major,  nulla  minor ; 
Unaquaeque  semper  ipsa, 

Sic  est  constans  atque  fixa, 

Ut  nec  in  se  varietur, 

Nec  in  ullam  transmutetur. 

Haec  est  tides  orthodoxa, 

Non  hie  error  sine  noxa ; 

Sicut  dico,  sic  et  credo, 

Nec  in  pravam  partem  cedo. 
Inde  venit,  bone  Deus, 

Ne  desperem  quamvis  reus  ; 
Reus  mortis  non  despero, 

Sed  in  morte  vitam  quaero. 
Quo  te  placem  nil  praetendo, 
Nisi  fidem  quam  defendo ; 
Fidem  vides,  hanc  imploro ; 
Leva  fascem  quo  laboro ; 

Per  hoc  sacrum  cataplasma 
Convalescat  aegrum  plasma. 
Extra  portam  jam  delatum, 
Jam  foetentem,  tumulatum, 
Yitta  ligat,  lapis  urget ; 

Sed  si  jubes,  hie  resurget; 


APPENDIX.  197 

Jube,  lapis  revolvetur, 

Ubi  tortor  semper  caedens, 

Jube,  vitta  dirumpetur ; 

Ubi  vermis  semper  edens ; 

Exiturus  nescit  moras, 

Ubi  totum  hoc  perenne, 

Postquam  clamis : Exi  foras. 

Quia  perpes  mors  Gehennae. 

In  hoc  salo  mea  ratis 

Infestatur  a piratis ; 

Me  receptet  Syon  ilia, 

Hinc  assultus,  inde  fluctus, 

Syon,  David  urbs  tranquilla, 

Hinc  et  inde  mors  et  luctus ; 

Cujus  faber  Auctor  lucis, 

Sed  tu,  bone  Nauta,  veni, 

Cujus  portae  lignum  crucis, 

Preme  ventos,  mare  leni ; 

Cujus  muri  lapis  vivus, 

Fac  abscedant  hi  piratae, 

Cujus  custos  Rex  festivus. 

Due  ad  portum  salva  rate. 

In  hac  urbe  lux  solennis, 

Infecunda  mea  ficus, 

Yer  aeternum,  pax  perennis : 

Cujus  ramus  ramus  siccus, 

In  hac  odor  implens  coelos, 

Incidetur,  incendetur, 

In  hac  semper  festum  melos ; 

Si  promulgas  quod  meretur ; 

Non  est  ibi  corruptela, 

Sed  hoc  anno  dimittatur, 

Non  defectus,  non  querela ; 

Stercoretur,  fodiatur ; 

Non  minuti,  non  deformes, 

Quod  si  necdum  respondebit, 

Omnes  Christo  sunt  conformes. 

Flens  hoc  loquor,  tunc  ardebit. 

Urbs  coelestis,  urbs  beata, 

Yetus  hostis  in  me  furit, 

Super  petram  collocata, 

Aquis  mersat,  flammis  urit ; 

Urbs  in  portu  satis  tuto, 

Inde  languens  et  afflictus 

De  longinquo  te  saluto ; 

Sibi  soli  sum  relictus. 

Te  saluto,  te  suspiro, 

Ut  infirmus  convalescat, 

Te  affecto,  te  requiro. 

Ut  hie  hostis  evanescat, 

Quantum  tui  gratulantur, 

Tu  virtutem  jejunandi 

Quam  festive  convivantur, 

Des  infirmo,  des  orandi ; 

Quis  affectus  eos  stringat, 

Per  haec  duo,  Christo  teste, 

Aut  quae  gemma  muros  pingat, 

Liberabor  ab  hac  peste ; 

Quis  calcedon,  quis  jacinthus, 

Ab  hac  peste  solve  mentem, 

Norunt  illi  qui  sunt  intus. 

Fac  devotum,  poenitentem ; 

In  plateis  hujus  urbis, 

Da  timorem,  quo  projecto, 

Sociatus  piis  turbis, 

De  salute  nil  conjecto ; 

Cum  Moyse  et  Elia 

Da  fidem,  spem,  caritatem, 

Pium  cantem  Alleluya. 

Da  discretam  pietatem ; 

Amen. 

Da  contemptum  terrenorum, 

St.  Uildebert. 

Appetitum  supernorum. 

Totum,  Deus,  in  te  spero ; 

“♦ 

Deus,  ex  te  totum  quaero. 

Tu  laus  mea,  meum  bonum, 

PTES  TR/E 

Mea  cuncta,  tuum  donum ; 

Tu  solamen  in  labore, 

Dies  irae,  dies  ilia 

Mendicamen  in  languore ; 

Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla 

Tu  in  luctu  mea  lyra, 

Teste  David  cum  sibylla. 

Tu  lenimen  es  in  ira ; 

Tu  in  arcto  liberator, 

Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 

Tu  in  lapsu  relevator ; 

Quando  Judex  est  venturus, 

Motum  praestas  in  provictu, 

Cuncta  stricte  discussurus. 

Spem  conservas  in  defectu ; 

Si  quis  laedit,  tu  rependis, 

Tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum 

Si  minatur,  tu  defendis  : 

Per  sepulcra  regionum, 

Quod  est  anceps  tu  dissolvis, 

Coget  omnes  ante  thronum. 

Quod  tegendum  tu  involvis. 

Mors  stupebit  et  natura, 

Tu  intrare  me  non  sinas 

Quum  resurget  creatura 

Infemales  officinas ; 

Judicanti  responsura. 

Ubi  mceror,  ubi  metus, 

Ubi  feetor,  ubi  fletus, 

Liber  senptus  proferetur, 

Ubi  probra  deteguntur, 

In  quo  totum  continetvfr, 

Ubi  rei  confunduntur, 

Unde  mundus  judicetur. 

798 


Judex  ergo  quum  sedebit, 
Quidquid  latet  apparebit, 
Nil  inultum  remanebit. 


APPENDIX. 


Ingemisco  tanquam  reus, 
Culpa  rubet  vultus  meus ; 
Supplicanti  parce,  Deus ! 


1 


Quid  sum  miser  turn  dicturus, 
Quern  patronum  rogaturus, 
Quum  vix  justus  sit  securus  ? 


Qui  Mariam  absolvisti, 

Et  latronem  exaudisti, 
Mibi  quoque  spem  dedisti. 


Rex  tremendse  majestatis 
Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis, 
Salva  me  fons  pietatis  ! 

Recordare,  Jesu  pie, 

Quod  sum  causa  tuse  vise ; 
Ne  me  perdas  ilia  die ! 

Quserens  me  sedisti  lassus, 
Redemisti  crucem  passus ; 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus. 

Juste  judex  ultionis, 

Donum  fac  remissionis 
Ante  diem  rationis. 


Preces  mese  non  sunt  dignse, 

Sed  tu  bonus  fac  benigne 
Ne  perenni  cremer  igne  ! 

Inter  oves  locum  prsesta, 

Et  ab  hsedis  me  sequestra, 

Statuens  in  parte  dextra. 

Confutatis  maledictis, 

Flammis  acribus  addictis, 

Yoca  me  cum  benedictis. 

Oro  supplex  et  acclinis, 

Cor  contritum  quasi  cinis ; 

Gere  curam  mei  finis. 

Thomas  de  Celano. 


1 1Il£ 


ESD. 


